


Blue Sun Rising

by lirpa_chan



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Romance, Ashe learns Brigidi!, Brigid (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Brigid/Fódlan Geopolitics, Buddy Cop! Ashe & Caspar (feat. reluctant Linhardt), Complicated Relationships, Culture Shock, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Knights of the Blue Sun, M/M, Macneary Family Drama, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Characters and Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Religious Conflict, Religious Discussion, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:00:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 37,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24633484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirpa_chan/pseuds/lirpa_chan
Summary: "Petra took Ashe with her to her homeland of Brigid, where she inherited the throne from her grandfather.  With Ashe's guidance, she established an order of knights, and used that order to declare independence from Fódlan and renegotiate diplomatic ties on more equal terms.  Over years of work reforming diplomatic and military policy together, Petra and Ashe fell in love and eventually were married.  The people of Brigid warmly embraced the union.  It is said that the name of the knightly order, the Blue Sun, was born of their mutual love of swimming in the sea."After the war, Ashe is uncertain of his place in the new world.  With signs of his tenuous relationship with Annette and Felix coming to an end, and a chance to fulfill his life-long dream of becoming a knight, Ashe journeys to Brigid to seek his fortune.  But Brigid is far from the peaceful and welcoming place he thought it would be.  As Petra tries to assert her rightful place as queen, the threat of civil unrest looms large.  Unable to tell friend from foe and unsure of what the future holds, Petra and Ashe find solace and certainty with each other as they work toward creating a brighter future.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Annette Fantine Dominic/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Petra Macneary, Caspar von Bergliez & Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert & Linhardt von Hevring, Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 9
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to the first chapter of **Blue Sun Rising**! I am beyond excited to share this work with you all and hope you're ready for a long, slow burn of Ashe/Petra. There will be just as much romance as there is political intrigue, action, and adventure.
> 
> As tags become necessary, I will add more. For the most part, the characters and relationships I've posted are the main components of this fic with a dash of others mentioned.
> 
> Surprisingly, this chapter contains **explicit sexual content**. Please be advised.
> 
> Also, the perfect song for this chapter is ["When You Go" by Johnathon Coulton](https://open.spotify.com/track/2iJCXIfAkgBLBSEU18W5cA?si=ZLr3A3mGQNOACkzyeWUldg) (Spotify). Just in case anyone is looking for a mood piece.
> 
> Enjoy!

From the side of the ballroom, Ashe watches Felix and Annette dance, wishing he possessed even an ounce of the refined elegance Felix has. Felix, as with all things, is a graceful dancer. He leads Annette across the dancefloor with assured strides, his movements effortless and polished from years of practice. Annette practically floats in his arms. Ashe, in contrast, had stepped on her feet when he’d attempted to lumber his way through a waltz. She’d giggled initially, but after his third misstep she’d taken the lead from him, slowing their tempo to something more manageable even as the music soldiered on. It had almost been a relief when Felix cut in, offering him a refreshment in exchange for her hand.

That had been several dances ago. Ashe absently swirls his gradually warming glass of champagne before taking a sip. The bubbles pop on his tongue and the sour taste does little to alleviate the sudden bitterness he feels. There was a reason the professor had dissuaded him from using a sword; he didn’t have the footwork for it. Not like Felix, anyway.

He sighs. Felix twirls Annette and she beams at him in between whirls, flushed and radiant in pale blue, her hair twisted up in an increasingly sloppy updo. Felix’s own smile is reserved, but fond. He clasps her gloved hand once she stops spinning and deftly guides her through the throng of bodies with quick, confident steps. A gentle smirk pulls at his lips and Annette laughs, breathless, as she tries to match his surprisingly playful pace.

It’s too much. Ashe has to look away as an intense pang of longing shoots through him. His chest tightens and he tries to focus on the opulence of the great hall rather than the vice on his heart.

A dozen crystal chandeliers hang overhead, glittering in the candlelight let off from the many, intricately carved sconces lining the walls. Guests in all manner of ostentatious livery lounge at round tables that pepper the left side of the room, framed by large and imposing windows blackened by nightfall and draped in thick, blue curtains. Matching plush strips of carpet line the reflective marble floor. Ashe suspects they’re a recent addition given the color’s vibrance. While the marble floor has been polished to a shine, there have likely been some hasty and unseemly repairs. It’s likely the same reason a Blaiddyd Flag hangs on some of the marble pillars lining the room, but not all.

The band strums a poignantly long note, perhaps signaling a break in their playing. Ashe turns his attention back to the dancefloor, searching for Annette and Felix despite himself. He finds them breaking apart to bow and curtsey, mutual adoration in their eyes. A bittersweet smile twitches at the corners of Ashe’s mouth. He knows soon they’ll….

“I never thought I’d see Felix look at someone like that.”

Ashe starts at Sylvain’s voice, nearly spilling the remains of his drink on his dark jacket. Sylvain chuckles and comes to lean next to him against a pillar, flagging a server as he does. Ashe notes the loss of Sylvain’s coat and that the top two fastenings of his scarlet shirt are undone. His previously slicked hair has become tousled, sticking up at odd angles or clinging to the sides of his handsome face, matted by sweat. Clearly Sylvain had been making the most of the celebration. Ashe doesn’t think he’s seen the man leave the dancefloor since he’d dragged Ingrid onto it a dozen or so songs ago.

When a server appears with a tray of fresh libations, Sylvain takes two— champagne and water—and Ashe hesitates before taking a second glass of the bubbly liquid. Sylvain snickers as Ashe drains the remains of his first glass before depositing the empty cup on the tray. He’s never had a particularly high tolerance for alcohol, but he can’t deny how nice the sudden numbing warmth settling over his skin feels.

With a chuckle, Sylvain clinks his glass against Ashe’s and takes a greedy gulp. Ashe follows his lead with a shallow swallow, already feeling a bit lightheaded. Oh Goddess, a second glass was probably _not_ his best idea….

Sylvain smirks and takes another swig from his cup, eyes trailing to the dancefloor as the music swells once more. Ashe frowns. He had been under the impression that there would have been a much longer break between songs; at least enough time to ask Felix how he had managed to convince the professor not to pick him as the dancer for the White Heron Cup. Instead he watches as the man encircles Annette once more, bowing over her hand before placing his other on her hip, ready for another dance.

“They make a good pair, don’t they?”

Ashe glances at Sylvain, forcing a tight smile and a strangled noise of affirmation. He sips his champagne, throat suddenly dry. “Y-yes,” he belatedly concurs, “they do.”

He tries to blot out the vision of Annette below him, the phantom feeling of her hands clawing at his back as Felix breathes hot in his ear, gripping his hips as they plunge frantically together toward ecstasy. Ashe shivers, pushing the memory aside, and swallows thickly.

Sylvain side eyes him with a quirked eyebrow. Ashe ignores the look and downs the last of his champagne, cheeks warm— from the memory or alcohol or both.

“Well, it could be awhile before Felix makes his move,” Sylvain says lightly. “This _is_ Felix we’re talking about, after all. Although, now that the war is over….”

“It’s only a matter of time,” Ashe agrees around the lump in his throat. He taps his empty glass, eyes turning back to Felix and Annette with an aching heart.

Now that the war was over there were a lot of things to consider— but not tonight. Tonight was supposed to be for purely celebration. Ashe tries to remind himself of this even as the vice around his heart tightens.

Sylvain shifts his weight and Ashe can feel the man’s eyes on him, considering.

“I guess now we just need to find _you_ someone.”

Ashe’s eyes flicker from the couple on the dancefloor to Sylvain. Had he finally been found out?

“And _you_ ,” he jests in an attempt to mask his panic. “Although if five dances with Ingrid is any indication….”

Sylvain blushes at that. “Hey now.”

Ashe smiles smugly, raising his glass to his lips before remembering it’s empty. He lowers it with a sigh.

“Shall I get another round? We can discuss which lady Sir Ashe Ubert will dance with next.”

His tone is playful and full of mischief. Ashe shakes his head, a small smile forming on his lips.

“I’m not a knight,” he says. “And I’m not much of a dancer either, I’m afraid.”

“What, Castle Gaspard didn’t have balls?”

“Not often,” Ashe says. “At least, not after…” he trails off. “Let’s just say I never quite mastered the art. There’s a reason the professor didn’t pick me for the White Heron Cup back at the academy.”

“The Heron—? Oh, I _forgot about that_!” Sylvain laughs. “His Majesty was _so_ mad! I’m surprised the professor didn’t pick me. Or Annette.”

“Annette was a lot clumsier back then,” Ashe hums fondly. “As for you…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Sylvain waves sheepishly. “Total philanderer.”

After a teasing back and forth and an unsuccessful attempt to drag Ashe back on the dancefloor, Sylvain excuses himself, leaving Ashe alone once again. He feels lighter for their idle chat— and perhaps floatier for their drinks. As his eyes rove over the crowd he can’t help smugly noting Sylvain has found Ingrid once again. She looks exasperated and Ashe can’t help but laugh. He knows if Ingrid _truly_ didn’t want to dance nothing and no one could make her. He wonders how long the two will skirt around their attraction to one another before admitting it. Given Sylvain’s reputation and Ingrid’s stubborn nature it could be awhile.

As another server passes he’s tempted to grab a third glass of champagne but decides against it. Instead he substitutes his and Sylvain’s empty glasses for a cup of water. He taps out the current song’s lilting melody with his fingers, eyes roaming the expansive ballroom. By the windows is an imposing glass door with a guard on either side. The thin slivers of moonlight that peek through the panes of glass suggest a garden lay just beyond it. Dedue stands nearby, stooping slightly to hear something a beautiful Mercedes is saying. She smiles when she catches Ashe looking and he thinks about walking over to say hello when the music ends.

Ashe turns his attention back to the dancefloor, searching. He spies Annette standing on her tiptoes to whisper something into Felix’s ear, a coy smile on her lips. He feels the phantom heat of her breath in his ear and shivers. Her smile is not for him though. Felix’s returned wicked grin isn’t either. Suddenly the vast room feels stifling and overly crowded. His head swims. He has to get out of there.

Crossing the room toward the garden terrace, he pointedly ignores Mercedes and Dedue’s eyes upon him and leaves his glass on an empty table. The guard manning the side closest to him appraises him with a bored look. As does the doorman. Ashe gestures awkwardly, unsure if he’s allowed to let himself out or not, and the doorman merely swings the door open with a perfunctory bow of his head. Ashe slips through, turning to cast the man an appreciative smile, but he has already refocused his attention on the other guests approaching.

The walkway is brightly lit and nearly as noisy the great hall. Small clusters of people cling to the balustrades or railing, making breathless chatter as they fan themselves. Beads of sweat drip down their faces, glittering like tiny diamonds in the torchlight. All over the walkway are abandoned articles of clothing; a velvet cloak kicked into a heap by the door; a silk sash tied to the railing. Ashe can’t tell if they’ve been forgotten or temporarily discarded by overheated dancers. Smoke billows around some groups like tiny clouds, suffocating in its pungency. It makes Ashe’s eyes water. He chokes on each breath and quickly disentangles himself from the small crowd.

Once down the cobble steps and into the courtyard proper, Ashe can breathe freely again. The air is refreshingly brisk against his flushed skin, but not overly cool. The grass is dewy from sporadic showers carried over from the Verdant Rain Moon, and Ashe follows a graveled path to a large fountain partially masked by greenery. Several couples meander the walkway or have taken partially hidden residence in the garden, but the conversations are mere murmurs. They’re all but eclipsed by the fountain’s gentle gurgling.

As Ashe approaches the marble basin he’s surprised at how large it is. He’s reminded of a fountain he and his siblings would bathe in before Lonato had taken them in. It’s obvious by the giant cracks and mismatched stone that a hasty reparation had occurred. The interior pool has been decorated with water lilies and variously sized goldfish, but Ashe can see the great many fissures lining the bottom and sides once he’s closer. It hardly matters. At its center is a beautiful, if partially broken marble statue. Ashe thinks it’s meant to be a rendering of the Goddess with the billowy drapery of her clothing and free flowing hair. Several streams of water shoot up to her angled feet, giving the illusion that it’s holding the ethereal woman afloat as she dances. An outstretched hand has been broken off, as has her nose, but it’s still a breathtaking sight.

Ashe takes a seat on the lip of the fountain, the gentle splashing of water masking all nearby noise. Folding his hands together, he looks up at the loving expression on the statue’s face and tries to feel comforted. If anything, the vice on his heart tightens. He just feels alone.

Since the end of the war, Ashe has found it difficult to pray. He gets distracted. Sometimes it feels meaningless. It takes him back to the time after Lonato’s death, when he was so angry and sad and everything that had once seemed so certain and rigid was suspect and fluid. And yet, he always finds himself in the arms of the Goddess, seeking refuge even when his faith waivers. Perhaps war just does that to people.

For a few, silent moments, Ashe simply stews in his thoughts, contemplating his future. It makes him anxious. He hadn’t expected to be _alive_ at the end of the war. He still couldn’t believe the war was _over_. Yet here he was, inside the walls of Fhirdiad castle for the crowning of his king, his _friend_. Looking up at the Goddess’s serene smile, broken yet there, Ashe can see that the future is bright and ripe with promise. Why did it make him feel so scared then?

The sound of rustling cloth and muted footsteps jolt him from his worried musing. He sighs. He’s not particularly in the mood for conversation but knows he can’t let his sour mood dictate the rest of the evening. Nor does he want it to. Straightening, Ashe affixes a smile to his face and turns to acknowledge his intruder.

“Ashe,” Petra greets with a hint of surprise. “I had not been expecting you here.”

Ashe swiftly stands and bows. “I could say the same to you.”

As he unbends he can see her shaking her head with an embarrassed, exasperated smile. She looks resplendent in a warm purple, flowy dress with high slits up the sides. Thin, gold chains crisscross over her chest and circle her bare midriff to hang loosely at her hips. They jingle with her approach and the moonlight reflects off of them in a way that captivates him; it’s like looking at the sunlight shine off of moving water. It’s a little daring for Fódlan tastes— particularly for such a formal occasion— but then Petra isn’t from Fódlan. Gone is the warrior in tanned animal hides; in its place in the princess of a nation.

Ashe almost feels unworthy to look upon her so familiarly. During the war he often forgot she _was_ royalty because she was so easy to talk to. Sure, there were the occasional linguistic or cultural misunderstandings, but she was always so eager to learn from them. Really, it was inspiring.

“It is being hot and loud inside,” she says, nodding in the direction of the great hall. “Outside is being less crowded.”

“I thought the same thing,” Ashe agrees. He gestures for her to sit with a shy smile before taking a seat himself. “It’s much quieter here.”

“Easier for conversing,” Petra grins. She pushes her long, purple hair over her bare shoulders and the bangles lining her wrists jangle together. Ashe can’t help but stare at their simple opulence. “I have been wanting to talk with you, but it has been… difficult finding time.”

Ashe refocuses his attention, the corners of his mouth dipping slightly at her tone.

“Is everything alright?”

“Hm? Oh! Yes,” she assures, rocking forward so her chin rests in her palm. “It is only….” She looks pensive for a moment and then takes a deeps breath. When she looks at Ashe again it is with a bright smile. “Soon I will leave for Brigid.”

Ashe blinks, taken aback. There was that vice on his heart again. He swallows.

“We will miss you,” he says. He tries to smile, but his lips do little more than twitch. “Must you really leave so soon?”

“It is eleven long years since I have left now. I am happy to be going,” she says, clasping her hands together and sitting up. “Returning home is all I have ever wanted. Now that the war is over, I am free to be doing so.

“Of course,” Ashe nods with a rueful smile. “I guess… it just seems so sudden.”

And it is, Ashe thinks. Barely more than a month had passed since the definitive defeat of Edelgard and the dissolution of the Empire. Dimitri had only recently returned to Fhirdiad to prepare for his crowning. Most of them had been living at Garreg Mach until arrangements could be made to head to their respective homes or, for most of them, temporarily to Fhirdiad for the ceremony.

“I will be staying for the festivities,” Petra grins. “I would not be missing them for the world. My grandfather has journeyed here for them too!” she adds fondly. “And Dimitri and I must be having discussions. But then I will be returning to Brigid.”

Ashe politely smiles and attempts to mask the sadness he feels. Given the way Petra’s expression falls he does not do a very good job.

“This is what I have been wanting to discuss with you,” she says, expression and tone suddenly sober. “You…” she starts hesitantly. “You will be going too, yes?”

Ashe’s brow furrows in confusion. “T-to Brigid? Or do you mean the festivities? Because of course I will be going to whatever His Majesty has planned, but—”

“To Brigid,” Petra affirms. “You are remembering our agreement, I hope?”

Ashe smiles weakly. “O-of course, but….”

He struggles to find the correct response under her intense scrutiny. Of course he remembers their conversation. It was the day before they marched for Gronder. Death had weighed heavy on his mind and he’d gone to the cathedral in an attempt to soothe himself. While the hallowed place had mostly been empty, Ashe was surprised to find Petra standing near the rubble that had once been the altar. Seemingly both eager for a distraction, they’d drafted an idyllic fantasy for their futures; Ashe would be a knight and Petra would finally return home, a queen. It was easier to ignore the more likely probability that they’d die in the upcoming battle.

Besides, the very idea of knighthood seemed to be a foreign concept in Brigid. Thinking of it now, hadn’t Petra just been humoring his desire to command her an army? He certainly hadn’t thought it was a real possibility. It was just a foolish fairytale; something to daydream about when everything else around them was so bleak.

“You are having doubts,” Petra frowns. Hurt shines in her brown eyes and Ashe can’t help feeling abashed.

“N-no,” he denies, but his protest sounds weak and feeble to his own ears. Petra purses her lips, eyes narrowing slightly, and Ashe has the decency to look away, ashamed.

The silence that follows is awkward. Ashe wracks his brain on how best to apologize. Suddenly it’s clear that Petra meant every word she had said that day; Ashe was the only one who hadn’t thought it possible. He supposes it’s a simple thing for royalty to make assurances with no regard for the way reality works. Perhaps if he had grown up privileged instead of poor it’d be easier to accept such promises as inevitable facts rather than mere daydreams.

Ashe is surprised when she clasps his hand between hers. They’re rough and dry from handling reigns and weapons. Ashe can’t help idly thinking they’re nothing like what he’d imagined a princess’s hands to feel like; so many of them had been damsels in distress in the stories he’d grown up reading.

“Please be considering it,” she beseeches, staring at him intently. Her grip is earnest and imploring. Ashe meets her eyes, hypnotizing in the moonlight, and after a long, considering moment nods.

“I will.”

He even means it.

She grins, gripping his hand excitedly.

“I am so happy to be hearing this! You must meet grandfather!” she announces, standing abruptly while still clutching his hand. “Ah, but now is…” Her cheeks are tinged pink when she glances at him over her shoulder. Quickly she releases his hand.

Ashe can’t help but laugh.

“I would like that,” he assures. “But you’re right. Now isn’t the time.”

Petra sighs, sitting down again. “No,” she sulks, crossing her legs and resting her chin in a palm. “Now is the time for Fódlan _dancing_. I am being expected to do more. It is tiring. In Brigid we are moving freely, together or separately. Here I must be following steps. It is hard.”

Ashe hums, stifling a laugh at her petulance. “I’m surprised. It seems like something you would pick up quickly.”

Ashe has seen Petra hunt a couple of times. Like Felix, she’s blessed with grace and agility, not to mention impeccable marksmanship. If he was being honest, she was probably a better bowman than he was. Surely her quick reflexes and sharp observational skills would lend themselves easily to learning how Fódlan nobility danced.

Petra shakes her head with a scowl and Ashe can’t help smiling. It’s endearing.

“There have not been many opportunities to learn, but enough to be looking foolish.”

Ashe nods in understanding. After Christophe’s execution the Gaspards were akin to social pariahs; no one wanted to associate with a meager house with ties on the wrong side of the Tragedy of Duscur. Thinking on it now, it was a wonder their social standing hadn’t suffered more than it had. Ashe hadn’t understood any of that at the time, however; he’d just been grateful he wouldn’t be expected to dance at the few parties he was allowed to attend. Well, until he’d gone to the academy anyway. Then he just felt embarrassed for being ill-prepared.

“Would you like to dance?” Ashe asks. “I’m obviously not much of a dancer myself,” he warns, “but we could suffer through it together.”

“I would be liking that greatly!” Petra exclaims. She pulls him to his feet with an airy laugh that’s infectious. Ashe smiles, feeling his sadness abide, and gives her a respectful bow of his head.

“Then I’d be honored,” he says, offering her his arm. “You’ll have to accept my apologies in advance for stepping on your feet.”

Petra links arms with him and giggles. “Then the same must be going with me. That is…. My apologies.”

Ashe nods and they head back through the garden and into the great hall, so bright, noisy, and warm after such a long reprieve. Ashe’s stomach knots as they near the dancefloor. For a brief moment he hesitates, wondering how rude it would be to suggest they sit at one of the nearby round tables and sip champagne instead. Very, probably. Fortunately (or not), Petra pulls him onto the floor before he can ask. He dutifully takes one of her hands in his and puts his other on her hip. They whisk into a sloppy shuffle, somewhat in time to the raucous melody being played. Petra seizes control, brow furrowed as she tries to force their strides to match their neighbors. Ashe misjudges a turn and steps on her foot. She winces, but it seems more from surprise than injury. When she meets his eye he gives her an apologetic smile.

“I did warn you,” he whispers, sheepishly.

She giggles, nodding at him before trying to resume their gait. Their bodies bump gracelessly against each other, at times far too close, then quickly too far apart. It’s impossible to properly match each other’s rhythm and Ashe can sense her growing frustration as her eyes dart across the floor, watching the other’s feet.

“Here, let me,” he says, guiding her hip closer to his, forcibly slowing their pace.

He steps forward, she steps back. He steps to the side, she follows. They continue these slow, assured strides for a successful turn about the floor and share a triumphant grin. Ashe picks up the pace, emboldened. He steps forward, she steps back. He steps to the side, she follows. He steps forward again, but she mistakenly steps to the side. Petra hurriedly twists herself into a spin and Ashe is forced to let her hand go or fumble forward. Her cheeks are flushed when she returns to their previous stance, but she leads them back into the dance. Almost immediately back into it, Ashe steps on her foot.

He bites his lip and mutters an apology which she nods at tacitly. When the song blissfully ends he lets out a sigh of relief.

“Perhaps we should have stayed outside.”

Petra laughs.

“I think we should dance as we do in Brigid next.”

“N-next?”

Petra nods, grinning. “It would be easier, I think.” She’s quick to amend, “But there would also be staring, so I am thinking not.”

As the next song rears up, Ashe looks to the side of the dancefloor longingly. Before he can suggest they sit, Petra pulls him back into the mass of bodies with renewed vigor. She dodges his traitorous foot more aptly their second turn about the floor, but they still fail to mimic the other couples’ footwork. Petra doesn’t seem to mind, but Ashe finds himself growing increasingly more self-conscious as the dance goes on; Petra’s movements are somewhat erratic and unexpected. He is breathless and done by the end of the third song, but Petra only seems more determined to continue.

“Mercy,” he pants as the next song sounds, a weak grin pulling at his lips, “ _please_.” Petra’s amused response is just a breathless laugh, but she nods, and they step off the marble onto the carpet.

“The dancing is being as surprisingly vigorous as Brigid,” she notes, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “It is still not being as free though.”

Ashe just nods. It’s hard to picture the type of dancing Brigid has based off of Petra’s descriptions. More “free,” but just as “vigorous.” When he was little his parents would take him and siblings to a festival every Harpstring Moon. There had been a lot of dancing around a large pole decorated with ribbons and flowers. It had been less rigid, but still similar to that of the Faerghus nobility. Maybe Brigid was more like that?

A bright voice interrupts Ashe’s musing and it takes a moment for him to realize he didn’t understand what it said. Petra responds in kind; the notes clipped and melodious, but still indecipherable. He turns toward the conversation to see a striking woman who could pass for Petra’s glamorous sister. Her outfit is somehow even bolder than Petra’s; Ashe can’t help blushing at the impossibly deep neckline. It doesn’t help that the complex design inked onto her sternum accentuates the exposed sides of her sun-kissed breasts making it hard not to stare. She appraises Ashe in a way that promises mischief. He smiles at her uncertainly, conscious of his eyes, and inclines his head.

“Oh! I’m sorry, this is being my cousin, Marina,” Petra beams, grasping her cousin’s hand excitedly. “She is not knowing much Fód. Please be excusing.”

Ashe nods in understanding, eyes never wavering from their faces.

“Please tell her I am honored to meet her.”

Marina looks between him and Petra with a smile that straddles the line of amused and confused. Petra presumably translates with an introduction on his behalf; he hears his name hidden within the cadence of her native tongue. Marina says something in response that sounds teasing. Petra’s voice dips harshly and a blush colors her cheek which makes Marina laugh. She says something else playfully, patting Petra’s clasped hand, before turning serious. Ashe continues to smile politely, clueless, as they exchange a few more words. He tries to ignore the mild annoyance he feels every time Marina looks at him, dark lips curled like she knows something he doesn’t. Finally Petra turns toward him, expression apologetic.

“Grandfather is looking for me. I must be going. But…” she looks askance, suddenly shy. “Thank you for dancing with me. I am hoping we can do this again. In Brigid.”

Ashe’s smile falters somewhat and he attempts to cover it by taking her free hand to bow over.

“It would be an honor.”

Marina giggles and says something airily which causes Petra to mutter some sort of exasperation. When Ashe releases her hand she’s flushed and flustered. She gives him a hasty nod, barely meeting his eyes, before darting through the crowd. Marina casts him a smirk over her shoulder as she saunters after her.

Ashe breathes a little easier once they’re lost amongst the crowd, an uneasy feeling settling in his stomach. Brigid…. What was he going to do?

“Hey.”

Ashe starts at the hot breath tickling his ear.

“F-Felix,” he breathes, turning to regard the slender man. “You startled me.”

Felix smirks, copper eyes roving over him as he moves to stand next to him. There’s a faint scent of sweet wine and evergreen as he passes. It stirs something in Ashe— as does the man’s uncharacteristically roguish appearance. He’s lost his teal overcoat and ruffled, broached neckpiece allowing Ashe a glimpse of the creamy skin beneath the thin, white dress shirt. The tight plait Felix had fashioned his hair into earlier has slackened and stray pieces have come undone to frame his handsome, pointed face. Ashe swallows, acutely aware of the man’s close proximity. Felix makes an amused sound having caught Ashe ogling, and places a hand on his hip, looking out into the sea of people.

“What was that about?”

Ashe blinks dumbly at him, his thoughts having strayed, and Felix nods in the direction Petra and her cousin had left in.

“Oh. That.” Ashe chuckles darkly, lip quirking up in a sardonic smile. “Nothing. I was just a poor dance partner.”

Felix snorts and tips his head toward Ashe. He maintains a respectable distance, but Ashe can’t help feeling overly conscious of the space between them.

“Are you trying to make Annette jealous?”

Ashe quivers at the low, playful quip. Felix’s lips hover dangerously close to his ear and Ashe can practically hear the cocky smirk form. He takes a breath and tries to compose himself.

“I would think she’d be grateful I didn’t torture her with another dance,” he says, voice soft with its effort to remain casual. He clears his throat, ruefully adding, “I stepped on Petra’s feet more often than I didn’t.”

“Oh?” Felix’s breath is hot in his ear. “Then are you trying to make _me_ jealous?”

Ashe has to close his eyes as a shiver wracks his body. He shakes his head again, part response, part an attempt to clear tempestuous reveries.

“O-of course not,” he stammers quietly. He dares a side-eyed glance at the man after a moment. “And what about you? Were you two trying to make _me_ jealous?”

Felix pulls back with a quizzical cock of his head. Ashe had meant to sound teasing, but fears it came out a touch too accusatory instead. He swallows and holds Felix’s scrutinizing stare, forcing a small smile as an apology or excuse bubbles up his throat. Felix just scoffs, a wicked grin curling his lips.

“I think we may have succeeded,” he says in that same low and teasing voice, “although I thought I was doing you a favor.”

Ashe looks away, his heart hammering and cheeks blazing. Felix loosens a satisfied snicker and allows his hand to ghost across Ashe’s lower back; it burns for the briefest of seconds on his hip when he leans in close.

“Come with me, Ubert.”

Every nerve comes aflame at that. Felix pulls away, looking smug, and heads in the direction of the garden terrace. Ashe takes a shuddery breath, suddenly heady with desire, and tries to temper it with the cold logic that this dalliance is just delaying the inevitable. He hesitates at that thought, but when Felix casts him a suggestive look over his shoulder, any resistance Ashe might have put up disappears. He follows.

The air is cooler than it was the first time Ashe ventured outside. It is also definitively less crowded. Felix appears from the shadows, snatching his arm and hurrying them down the dimly lit walkway of balustrades. When they round the dark corner, he pushes Ashe flush against the stone wall, covering his tiny yelp with a scorching kiss. There are no torches lit, but the moonlight catches the flickering heat in Felix’s eyes when he breaks away. They burn bright like the molten planes of Ailell. Ashe’s heart beats erratic, something dark coiling in the pit of his stomach. He gasps when Felix nips his bottom lip and shudders when he moves his mouth to the crook of his neck. Felix snarls in response to the noise, primal and lusty to Ashe’s ear, and bites down.

Ashe arches off the wall and Felix presses into him, teeth grazing a teasingly torturous trail over the sensitive skin. Ashe involuntarily ruts against him, senses overloaded, and claws at the back of the man’s silk vest. Felix snatches his wrists and deftly pins them to the wall, leaning into him with a bruising kiss near his collarbone.

Ashe writhes against him, the friction delicious and excruciating. He can’t help the moan that rises from the action.

Felix shifts his weight, so he’s no longer firmly pressed against Ashe, and plants a smiling kiss over what is sure to be a mark in the morning.

“Not here,” he says, pulling back. The cocky smirk is still there, but his eyes dart around the deserted walkway at a peel of far off laughter, suddenly cautious. Ashe makes a frustrated sound as Felix releases his wrists, chuckling. “Come.”

He will soon, no doubt.

Ashe follows him quickly down the blackened hall, heart pounding. He doesn’t know where they are or where they’re going. He only hopes they get there soon.

Felix leads them back inside the castle though a large, arched door. He steals kisses in the abandoned corridor on the other side, breaking from them nearly as fast as he starts them, looking cool and collected when they emerge into a large foyer full of wandering partygoers turning in for the night. He nods at the few sleepy-drunk greetings directed at him, seemingly indifferent, and even sneers at a quizzical Dedue when they briefly cross paths. Ashe’s cheeks burn when he passes, unable to meet the man’s eyes. The best he manages is a sputtered ‘goodnight’ before Felix barks at him to hurry up. He prays Dedue has drunk enough not to question how Ashe hastens to obey or the fact that Felix seems to be leading them to the upper echelons of the castle.

After what feels like a small eternity that’s left Ashe breathless and on edge, they emerge from the winding staircase and into a small, intricately decorated passage. At the end of it is a beautiful stained-glass mural of wild blue indigo. Four sets of doors line the walls, two on either side, each emblazoned with a faded blue crest of Fraldarius. Felix pulls Ashe’s wrist as they draw closer to the mural, swinging him so his back thumps against the wooden door on the left. The shock of the motion elicits a gasp from Ashe more than the force of impact. Felix boxes him in, hands hitting the wood just beside his shoulders, a hungry leer donning his angular, handsome face. It is oddly reminiscent of the first time Felix had cornered him at the academy— only Ashe had been half a foot shorter and surrounded by books.

The heat that had been made to simmer in their traveling rekindles instantly. Ashe juts his chin up, desperate to taste Felix’s lips again, but Felix seems unhurried. He leans in slowly, capturing Ashe’s mouth in a kiss both languid and saccharine. His tongue parts his lips softly to explore the depths within. Ashe’s mind goes blank, intoxicated. Frustrated. The switch from hard and fast to soft and slow is torturous despite its tenderness.

It’s only going to make it that much harder to let go.

“What’s wrong?”

The whisper is a breath on his lips, sweet and concerned.

Ashe looks askance, chest seizing.

“N-nothing,” he lies. The words come out trembling and Ashe can’t help wincing at how pathetic he sounds.

Felix cups his chin, gently coaxing him to look at him. Ashe swallows. He tries to avoid the man’s eyes but after a few seconds relents. The concern on Felix’s face is plain. His copper eyes, smoldering like embers and brimming with feeling, scorch Ashe with their intensity. Only someone who hadn’t been loved by Felix could believe him to be a cold and emotionless man.

Felix doesn’t say anything. He studies Ashe for a moment before leaning in, capturing his lips in another tender kiss. Ashe feels himself go boneless, drunk off of Felix’s love and hating himself for it. Felix presses against him, but the motion is gentle and deliberate, communicating without words that he is there; that he isn’t going anywhere. Ashe tries to lose himself in the moment, but the pain in his chest refuses to go away.

When they break, Felix cocks his head slightly, surveying. Ashe tries to smile in response, but Felix’s brow furrows, seemingly unconvinced.

“What about Annette?” Ashe finally asks. He hates how fragile he sounds.

“She’ll join us later.”

Ashe frowns, but Felix just kisses him again, letting his lips linger close when he draws back. Belatedly he nips at Ashe’s bottom lip following it with a huff of laughter just off his teeth. A tenuous smile pulls at the corners of Ashe’s mouth at that sweet boyishness. He absently fiddles with the buttons on the front of Felix’s vest. The man pecks the corner of Ashe’s jaw with a pleased hum before nipping at the pulse just below. Ashe’s breath hitches at the swell of intense pleasure that blooms from the action. Felix pulls away with a satisfied noise, tilting his head toward Ashe’s ear.

“Let’s go.”

Ashe shakes, overly sensitive to the hot breath. When Felix opens the door, Ashe stumbles backward into a tiny foyer. Felix snickers. Cheeks warm, Ashe rights himself and steps into the space proper. It’s a rather spacious room and save for a fire casting a warm glow across the stone floor, dimly lit. The duvet on the fourposter bed has been invitingly downturned and the fresh pitcher and wash basin placed on a nearby table suggest a maid has recently come and gone. Ashe starts when the door creaks. He turns to see Felix pushing it shut with his heel, dark eyes boring into him and as predatory half smile curls his lips. A thrum of anticipation buzzes through Ashe’s veins. Then Felix’s hands are on him.

They cup his face, pulling him into a searing and greedy kiss that Ashe is only too willing to reciprocate. He tugs at the front of Felix’s vest, needing him closer. They stumble backward a few paces and Felix’s hand moves to Ashe’s hips, forcefully stilling him. He presses against him then, sure hands roaming up over his clothed chest to push his coat off his shoulders. Ashe rids himself of it as Felix’s lips move to nibble at his earlobe, trickling hungry kisses down his neck. Ashe gasps at the man’s alternating use of sharp teeth and soft tongue. He barely registers when the fastens of his shirt come undone until he feels Felix’s mouth against his collar, kissing in earnest.

Ashe fists a hand in Felix’s hair, forcing the man’s head up with the intent of reclaiming his mouth. Felix growls at the tug, teeth bared, and his fingers dig into Ashe’s hip in retaliation.

“S-sorry,” Ashe pants. “Did I—?”

Felix gives a curt shake of his head, eyes gleaming. He roughly recaptures Ashe’s mouth with a throaty, animalistic snarl, one hand snaking down his lower back to pull him impossibly closer, making his passion known. When he resurfaces for air, Ashe is breathless and lightheaded. Half of his shirt hangs off one shoulder, pooling at his wrist from the buttoned cuff. Felix helps him shimmy out of it before moving his calloused hands over his naked chest and back, something akin to reverence in their exploration. He bends his head to trail slow, searing kisses across his collar bone to the pink and puckered scar tissue left from an arrow that strayed true. Ashe trembles at the attention, a strange mixture of pleasure and shame fizzing in his stomach.

When Felix drops a knee, trailing a wet, hot tongue down his belly to the long scar by his hip, Ashe nearly loses his mind. The ache in his is pants too great; the devotion too heartfelt. A low whine escapes his clenched teeth even as he screws his eyes closed. Felix trades his tongue for teeth, causing Ashe to jerk and look down, before he softens the bite with a bruising kiss. Ashe convulses and gasps, hands fisting in Felix’s silky tresses, mesmerized by the molten heat of Felix’s eyes. He pulls back when Felix’s lips release him, dizzy. Felix stares at him for a moment, looking beautifully disheveled and poised despite the wild, ravenous look in his eyes. Ashe tries to calm down. He wants this to last.

When he doesn’t move, Felix rises from his half-kneeled position and advances on him. He cups his neck with one hand, thumb stroking his jaw soothingly, as the other ventures to his hip, guiding him back against him. Ashe feels the swell in his pants bump against his own and closes his eyes, mouth parting in pleasure. Felix takes it as an invitation to explore with his own, the hand on Ashe’s neck snaking to the back of his head. The other drifts from his hip to ass and gives a firm squeeze. Ashe groans into Felix’s mouth. He embraces the man, deepening their kiss, and bucks against him. The motions elicit a sharp, surprised inhalation from Felix, delicious to Ashe’s ears. He does it again and again, enjoying the friction as much as the tiny, ecstatic hisses Felix makes.

With quick, deft fingers Felix unlaces Ashe’s pants in between ruts and slips his hand inside. Ashe’s moan tapers to a whimper as Felix curls his hand around his length and begins to pump in quick, precise motions. The pleasure is too intense. Ashe clutches the front of Felix’s shirt, head lolling onto his shoulders, quaking as the man artfully strokes him. As the mounting pressure builds, Ashe bites down on Felix’s collar bone, trying to temper his bliss by focusing on the taste of salty skin. He whines when Felix releases him, displeasure mixing with mild relief, but it is short lived. Felix twists him around, pulling him flush against himself, his erection grinding into his backside. Ashe’s head rolls back onto the man’s shoulder. Felix’s breath comes out in hot, excited little pants. His tongue flicks out to tease Ashe’s ear as he expertly eases his pants and undergarments down, exposing him fully. Ashe lets out a keening sound, wishing for the man to grip him once more.

“Is this what you want?” Felix whispers, featherlight fingers teasing the underside of his erection as an arm encircles his chest.

Ashe chokes on his breath at the pleasurable throb, squeezing his eyes shut. He’s unable to do more than dumbly nod. Felix huffs a dark chuckle, gripping him suddenly with a slow, torturous stroke. Ashe thrusts into the touch even as the rest of him goes boneless, held in place only by Felix’s solidness. When he opens his eyes again it is to the erotic reflection of themselves in the corner mirror. He looks obscene with is pants barely clinging to his thighs, knees wobbling as Felix toys with him, ruffled but still fully clothed. He gasps, trying to find purchase with sweaty hands on Felix’s thighs, feeling precariously close to the edge.

Perhaps Felix senses this because he moves them closer to the bed. Ashe squirms out of his hold to claim his mouth while attempting to unfasten the other man’s pants with shaky fingers. Felix goes to work discarding his vest and shirt, knuckles bumping against his chest in the process. Ashe drops to his knees. The stone is cold and hard, but he barely registers it as he yanks at the man’s waistband, finally uncovering him. Felix lets out a low hiss when he springs forth and Ashe wastes no time sampling him, tonging the sensitive underside before enveloping him whole. Felix gasps. His hands immediately fly to Ashe’s head. The high, strangled note sends a thrill straight to Ashe’s core; the choked affirmations of a man usually so composed coming completely undone because of him is darkly satisfying. Ashe bobs up and down on the man’s length, reveling in the taste and feel of him. Felix’s fingers spasm in his hair. He can tell the man is fighting to control his passion; he stops tugging at Ashe’s hair as soon as he starts; stills the moment he begins to thrust forward or hold fast.

But Ashe _wants_ him to lose control. He cocks his head allowing for a deeper angle and Felix arches onto his toes with a tiny gasp, holding his head in place. Ashe massages a firm thigh, thumb trailing over a long scar caused by an errant slash of a sword, before cupping his ass to pull him in even further. Felix’s mouth parts in a soundless ‘oh,’ brow furrowed in exquisite bliss. He quickly backs off, roughly prying Ashe’s hands off of him to jerk him to a stand. The look in his eyes is hungry and dark. He pushes Ashe onto the bed, descending upon him in a frenzy of harsh teeth and greedy hands.

Ashe quivers and mewls, tingling thrills thrumming through his veins directly to his cock with each unkind nip. Felix rises enough to hook Ashe’s legs over his arms and yanks him to the edge of the bed. He aligns their throbbing erections and grips, pumping with a strong, skilled hand, twisting it as necessary to stroke every inch. Ashe cries out, hips bucking wildly at the delicious, uneven friction; the sensation of rubbing between something firm and smooth versus calloused and edged creates an unstable ecstasy. Felix suddenly stops, leaving him cold and alone to rustle through the desk closest to the bed. Ashe sits up questioning, but Felix flashes him a wicked grin over his shoulder, a small vial in hand.

“Preparation.”

Ashe quivers in anticipation. He licks his lips as Felix crosses back to him, carelessly dropping the vile on the bed and rubbing his cock to a glisten.

“Lie back.”

Ashe obeys. Felix lifts his legs so they rest precariously on his shoulders. Ashe feels himself tighten in apprehension and tries to relax. He wants this, but there’s always a slight fear of pain. Felix lightly kisses the inside of his knee, eyes never leaving Ashe’s as he waits for the go ahead. Ashe’s chest flutters under the searing gaze. Doubt should never have even crossed his mind; Felix has always been careful. He nods.

The cool temperature of the first slick finger surprises a high keen from him. Felix lets him adjust to the sensation and then moves slowly. He inserts a second digit when Ashe nods again, breath shaky. When Ashe’s hands begin fisting in the bedspread Felix picks up speed. He thrusts and scissors experimentally, each push threatening to tip Ashe over the edge.

“F-Felix,” he breathes, voice strangled, “I-I’ll—”

Felix withdraws his fingers and Ashe lets out a frustrated, despaired whine, head snapping back, pulling his neck taut.

“ _Please_ ,” he begs. He swallows a pant, lifting his head to look at his torturer. “ _Please_.”

“So needy,” Felix says. His voice is cool, detached. It completely belies the heated lust in his eyes. He runs a featherlight hand up and down his leg, the tickling sensation further heightening the ache for release. The touch turns to torture when the man begins idly thumbing his entrance with his other hand. “Annette was right.”

Ashe arches off the bed, aching to feel the man’s skilled fingers working inside of him again, but something unrelated to pleasure twists his stomach.

“W-what?”

Felix chuckles and reaches for the previously abandoned vile, recoating his fingers in the sticky, clear liquid.

“She thinks we danced too long.” He inserts a digit, making Ashe squirm and gasp. “That you might have felt ignored.”

Ashe moans when a second finger joins the first.

“I-I didn’t—”

“That _I_ would have to make it up to you,” he continues, scissoring his fingers, stretching Ashe in ways that makes his cock throb in anticipation. Felix hovers over him, lips ghosting over his collar to his neck to his ear. “Well,” he practically purrs, “have I succeeded in doing that, Ubert?”

Ashe nearly comes. He cries out, fisting his hands, shaking his head. Everything in him sings yes. Felix smirks above him.

“Good,” he says and pulls back, once again withdrawing his talented fingers. Ashe takes in one shuddery breath after another, trying to collect himself. The image of Annette standing on tiptoe to whisper something in Felix’s ear on the ballroom floor comes to mind. Had the two actually been plotting this exact moment?

There’s no time to ponder this— not while Ashe is drunk on lust and desperate for Felix’s touch. For release.

And then Felix enters him.

An embarrassingly loud wail escapes him as Felix pushes in slow and slick and hot. _So full_ — he feels so _full_. Complete. Undone.

“M-more,” he pants.

Felix slides in deeper, eyes closed, mouth parted. He stills, waiting for Ashe to adjust or simply relishing in his own pleasure at the tightness. Ashe squirms, whimpering.

“More. Please. More. Please. _Mor— ahh_!”

 _So deep_. Ashe doesn’t know if he thinks it or says it, but it becomes his mantra with each measured, powerful thrust Felix makes. Ashe cries out, arching off the bed. Felix grabs his hips, fingers digging into him with bruising intensity. He pulls him roughly closer, chest pushing down against his legs allowing him to thrust even deeper, faster, _harder_ —

“I-I’m going to—"

Felix is quick to take Ashe’s cock in hand and jerk, his thrusts picking up speed and intensity, becoming increasingly more erratic. It pushes Ashe over the edge. He comes, writhing and bucking and crying into a full body tension; then there is nothing but bliss and weightlessness.

Felix comes soon after, spilling hot inside of him with a quiet gasp. He trembles when he withdraws, expression unguarded and content as he falls onto Ashe. His lips belatedly brush against his neck, sleepy and sated, and Ashe brings his arms around him to hold him close. They lie like that for a long few minutes, breath evening and bodies cooling. Then Felix eases himself off of Ashe, pushing aside a stray lock of grey hair as he smiles down at him. Ashe returns the look, dazed and happy before sitting up. They adjust to lie in the bed proper. Felix pulls Ashe into him with a sleepy peck against his temple and a contented sound, arms ensnaring him in a light embrace. Ashe snuggles against him, relishing the softness of the bed and the warmth of Felix’s embrace. Before he knows it, he’s fast asleep.

* * *

Ashe stirs from his sleep when the door creaks open. Pre-dawn light peeks through the cracks in the heavy curtains suggesting several hours have passed since he and Felix fell to the bed, spent. Ashe turns his head to blink blearily at the entrance as Annette sneaks in. She casts her shoes aside, two tiny _thumps_ followed by a relieved sigh, before padding quietly over to the bed. She trips over the hem of her dress, too long without the aid of heels, and tumbles unceremoniously on top of Ashe. She squeaks, whispering an apology as she gingerly shifts to his side. Felix groans beside him, rolling over. Ashe’s stomach feels cold in the absence of the man’s arm. He turns on his side and scoots closer to Felix to give Annette room to spoon.

“You’re late,” he murmurs as she melds into his naked warmth, still clothed. She smells like sweat and champagne. She nestles her head under his chin and he kisses it lightly, slinging an arm over her middle to pull her even closer.

“I know,” she yawns, entwining their hands and limbs. The bed is not quite made for three people and her knees hang slightly over the side. “It was a late party and you guys left early.”

“You may recall I’m not much of a dancer.”

He feels Annette’s shoulder bounce in a soundless giggle. She squeezes his hand. “I found you charming.”

“Are your feet alright?”

“They’re sore— from _dancing_ , not because you… you know.”

“Ah, so I _did_ hurt you,” the corner of his lip quirks up sadly. “I’m sorry,” he kisses the back of her neck, just below her ear. “I suppose we can’t _all_ be as graceful as Felix.”

“Shut up,” Felix mutters grumpily.

Annette and Ashe still before sharing a silent chuckle. They quiet. He strokes the back of her hand comfortingly for a while, a question uncertainly sitting on the tip of his tongue.

“Did you…” he starts softly, “Did you, um, ask Felix to…?”

Annette cranes her neck to look at him from her side position, a knowing smile splayed on her pink lips. She squeezes his hand.

“I wanted to make sure you had a good time too.”

Ashe blushes at that.

“I-I see…. Well, um—”

“Shut. _Up_.”

Ashe stills and Annette giggles, rolling her eyes. She tucks her head back under Ashe’s chin and squeezes his hand soothingly, seemingly settling in for sleep. Ashe thinks about asking if she’d like help undressing, but then Felix rolls back over, throwing his arm over Ashe’s midriff and a long, sinewy leg over his hip. His breath is soft and peaceful against his neck. Annette snuggles into Ashe’s embrace with a pleased hum, bringing their laced fingers to her mouth to kiss. Ashe smiles and shuts his eyes, content.

There are only a few moments like these left for them. Better to treasure them all.


	2. Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again~! I know it's been awhile, but I have been hard at work laboring over this chapter! There was _a lot_ of ground to cover. Here's nearly 29K to make up for the wait :).
> 
> No warnings. Petra's POV.
> 
> Recommended listening: [ SKÁLD](https://open.spotify.com/artist/3uliAYf4KyTkBpVf3BiWVv?si=YKo44I9fRCiH2kiT0JhGQg), [The HU](https://open.spotify.com/artist/0b2B3PwcYzQAhuJacmcYgc?si=HYewrrJbR8a0xkIM6L5E2g), and the [Northern Spirits](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/37i9dQZF1DWXhcuQw7KIeM?si=ftqMfemTTEyvIq6P5I8KBw) playlist (all on Spotify).
> 
> Next chapter will be Ashe's POV.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
> 

Petra doesn’t remember her father’s coronation. She hadn’t been much more than a babe when her grandfather gave up his title and crown to his eldest son. When he took the mantle back nearly ten years later, Petra had been on a boat bound for Fódlan. She doubts there had been any sort of celebrating then. Still, she wonders how different a Brigidi coronation is to a Fódlanite one. The seemingly endless days of feasting and dancing remind her of the time leading up to the summer solstice. Would her own coronation just be more of the same?

The feasting, she’s decided, would not go on so long in Brigid. A daily seven-course meal is nothing short of excessive, especially if the rumors of Dimitri being unable to taste are true. He seems happy enough though. Seated at an elevated table perpendicular to his subjects, he looks quite regal in fact. The professor sits to his right, looking stately in her new archbishop regalia, and quiet Marianne von Edmund smiles demurely from his left. Petra wonders what’s to be implied by the von Edmunds sitting at the king’s table; perhaps there’s to be a royal wedding in the future.

Depending when it is, Petra wonders if she’d be able to attend; it took her family nearly five weeks to arrive in Fhirdiad. It could take as many as seven for them to return to Brigid. Would an invitation even arrive with enough notice for Petra to plan a return journey? Surely whoever planned such an event would take guest travel into consideration. Not that it matters. Dimitri has more pressing issues to deal with right now than planning a wedding— like determining the future state of Brigid.

Her stomach knots at the thought, a bundle of nerves and excited anticipation. She’s been counting down the days till her meeting with the new king. It will be the first time she’ll speak for Brigid in an official capacity. It will also be the first time her grandfather will see her in action. Perhaps that’s why she feels so unduly nervous. She’ll be creating new policies while dismantling old ones in front of her grandfather; the idea is as liberating as it is nerve-wracking. She is inexperienced in matters of diplomacy. Put a weapon in her hand and she will excel; she’s a warrior by nature. But paperwork and diplomatic discussions? Here she worries she’ll fall short.

Not to mention Grandfather is not as warm as she remembers. There are more lines on his weathered face and incredulity in the near permanent knit of his brow. She had expected some level of appraisement from him upon his arrival, so his standoffishness hadn’t come as a _complete_ surprise. Aside from letters that had been carefully combed over by Duke Gerth, she hadn’t had much contact with him since coming to Fódlan. Asking for his aid during the war was the first time they’d been able to speak candidly in many years and it was all too brief a meeting. It’s possible she’s merely projecting her own insecurities onto him, but she worries he doubts her capabilities as the future ruler.

Despite the openness of the cavernous room, Petra suddenly feels suffocated. The air is stale and smells of stew, wine, and sweat. In Brigid they would have surely dined under the stars, the salt of the ocean wafting through the perfume of the summer blooms and fire. Perhaps she wouldn’t feel so surly if she weren’t scrunched between her cousins at the long, narrow table her family heads. Not only does Lukas keep knocking her elbow with his thick, muscled arm, Duke Gerth’s youngest son, Hugo, keeps kicking her whenever he adjusts in his seat. If he hadn’t just hit a major growth spurt she’d think he was doing it on purpose. Given his pocked face turns scarlet every time it happens suggests it’s more likely accidental.

She smiles at him, but her shins _are_ starting to hurt. Crossing her ankles, she tucks her feet under her chair, hoping her knees will fare better against the teen’s gangly limbs. Marina snorts into her napkin at her right, dark lipstick staining the white linen.

“Playing footsie are we?”

Petra gives her a withering look.

“Hardly.”

“I suppose he _does_ seem a bit young,” the woman teases, taking a dainty bite of a spiced carrot. “Not much to look at either.”

Petra bites her tongue, invoking a river spirit’s patience instead. She envisions the calm way a stream moves around the obstacles in its path; if Marina is a rock, Petra would be the water.

“He’s young,” Petra says, cutting a bit of roasted duck and unintentionally elbowing Lukas’s meaty arm in the process. “In a few years he’ll look more like his brother.”

“And which one is that?” Marina asks, eying the row of men seated across from them curiously.

Petra thinks it’s obvious, but nods to the plain though not unattractive man sitting directly across from them. Seamus, Duke Gerth’s eldest son, has come into his own over the last few years. It’s fortunate he bares his mother’s more feminine features because he is a near replica of his father in personality. Marina tilts her head, considering. Catching his eye, she bats hers, causing him to miss the spoonful of mush half raised to his mouth. It plops back onto his plate with an unflattering _splat_ , bits of gravy staining his red dinner coat. He quickly dabs at the mess with his napkin, the tips of his ears turning the same shade as his now soiled jacket. Marina giggles, turning back to Petra, amused.

“Yeah, not my type.”

Petra snorts and shuts her eyes. It is an interesting if not unexpected choice to seat the Gerth’s across from them. Duke Gerth had practically raised Petra in her family’s stead, after all. As the man is still acting as a Minister of Foreign Affairs in some capacity, it’s also a strategic arrangement. He’ll be at the meeting tomorrow. Petra worries her grandfather will see this as some kind of slight rather than an opportunity. The duke may have drafted the final version of the Brigid-Dagda War treaty, but Petra had found him to be a fair, decent man. Even if he weren’t, he and his family have been cowed by the Empire’s dissolution; staying in Dimitri’s good graces ensures his position in society is secured. Therefore, getting on the good side of the Brigidi royal family would prove to be mutually beneficial.

“Honestly, our table seems to be lacking in eye candy,” Marina sighs, pulling Petra from her musings and back to the table. “They’re all rather dull too.”

“Dull?” Petra raises an eyebrow. “How can you tell?”

Marina shrugs. “Well, no one is really paying attention to us.”

“Only the Duke speaks Brigidi fluently.”

“No kidding,” Marina sniffs. “He and Lukas seem quite chummy.”

Petra grimaces as Lukas unintentionally nudges her in his effort to gesticulate something with a raucous laugh. She hasn’t been following his and the duke’s conversation given its banality. Not to mention she thinks the duke preens a little too obviously about his mastery of their language. Since she hasn’t had to translate for Lukas once though she’s been happy to overlook the man’s smugness. Given her grandfather’s relative absence from the two’s conversation, she thinks he has similar feelings. He looks bored but responds when the duke tries to engage with him, nodding or shaking his head as necessary. It’s nearly impossible to hear the few phrases he utters over the cacophony of chatter and cutlery. Truth be told, the din is starting to give Petra a headache.

How much longer could this dinner last? She scowls when Lukas elbows her while she’s cutting a piece of meat. She waits to take the bite, timing her movement with Lukas’s swig of wine. He manages to bump against her anyway, suddenly swinging his cup to emphasize something. The food slides off her fork and onto the edge of the table, narrowly missing her dress. Petra swears under her breath and sets her fork down with a slight clatter, decidedly done with her meal.

Marina’s shoulders bounce with suppressed laughter, further souring Petra’s increasingly foul mood.

“How much has Lukas had to drink?” Marina asks around a chuckle. When Lukas lets out another boisterous laugh, she raises an eyebrow. “Surely the duke isn’t _that_ entertaining. Or, if he is, trade seats with me. I’m bored.”

Petra ignores her in favor of cleaning the mess Lukas caused to keep it from falling into her lap. They were on course six. Dessert is all that remained. Dinner couldn’t _possibly_ last that much longer.

_Be the river_ , Petra tells herself, closing her eyes with a deep breath. When Hugo knocks knees with her, she sees red and leans as far back in her chair as possible.

Finally, after another hour of Marina’s whining, Lukas’s jostling, and Hugo’s petrified, embarrassed silence, Dimitri mercifully rises from his seat, signaling the end of the feast. He asks them to join him in the grand ballroom or retire for the evening in light of another hectic day and, one by one, guests rise from the tables to snake their way out of the room. Fortunately, Petra’s table is one of the first to be excused. She all but flees into the hall, happy to move and stretch her aching limbs and, if she’s being honest, to get away from her family for a little bit.

It’s strange to desire a moment of respite from them considering how desperately she’d yearned to see them these last eleven years. Her cousins are nearly unrecognizable now— and not just physically. Marina had only _started_ flirting with boys when Petra had left the island, and Lukas had still been Kilían’s shy, scrawny shadow. Given the level of swagger and bravado he’s displayed the past few days— never mind the sheer size of him— it’s hard to reconcile he’s the same person as her crybaby cousin. It makes her wonder what kind of person Kilían has morphed into; will she find any trace of the boy she’d known when they meet again?

She pushes the anxious feelings starting to rise aside, asking the river spirit to carry them away, and picks up her pace to enter the extravagant room. The separation will only for a little while, she assures herself. After all, soon she will be with her family every day; they will have all the time in the world to get reacquainted. Petra can’t help smiling at the thought. The idea of going home is almost surreal; it’s been her greatest wish for so long it seems impossible that it should finally be coming true.

She will miss Fódlan though. For better or worse (and there has been _a lot_ worse) it has been her home away from. She’s come to appreciate the colder months and the resilience of its people. In some ways, it has brought her closer to the flame spirit. For that reason, she thinks she will take the flame as her marker once she is crowned. She shakes the thought away, feeling slightly foolish. Her own coronation is still so far off; it’s silly to think about such specifics now. Even so, she can’t help idly fantasizing about it. She hopes everyone will be there to watch her ascend to the throne too. It’s hard to believe she’ll be leaving them all so soon.

The re-realization of that halts her giddy daydream, replacing it with a light melancholy. Her friends... She will miss them quite dearly. Leaving them will be very hard.

She tries to shake her gloom by thinking more positively. It’s not like it will be goodbye forever: they’ll always be welcome in Brigid as surely as she will be in Fódlan. And, she hopes, scanning the room with a racing heart, she won’t be going back home alone.

While her conversation with Ashe hadn’t gone _exactly_ as planned, she’s optimistic about it. It’s understandable that he might have had doubts, but now he knows she was serious about her offer. Also, asking for an answer on the spot had been a little unfair of her. He has his siblings to think of. Although, they are much older than she had initially thought; in fact, she thinks she might be the same age as his brother. Rowan, if she remembers his name correctly, had been handling Gaspard’s affairs in Ashe’s stead once he’d rejoined with the kingdom army. That wouldn’t have been feasible if Rowan were a child; Ashe’s stories about his kid siblings just happened to paint him as such.

Since they _are_ older, surely they’d be fine if Ashe decided to go to Brigid. They’d want him to achieve his dream of becoming a knight, right?

She’s more worried how her family will react to Ashe’s presence. Explaining to Grandfather why the man is accompanying them back home will be tricky. Given Lukas and Marina’s attitude toward Fódlanites and their culture, knighthood seems like it might be a hard sell in Brigid; Grandfather will likely feel the same way. She’s certain it will prove beneficial to introduce the concept in the long run though. Many of her ideas for creating a stronger Brigid will get pushback due to the origin of them; Fódlan has taken much from her people throughout the history of the two lands. She will need a forest spirit’s strength to see her vision through. If Ashe is there to lend credence to her ideas and charm her people with his order of knights, she’s sure they will handle such changes more readily.

But first she will need to convince him to come back with her.

Once inside the glittering ballroom, Petra gives a wide berth to the dancers already making their way onto the floor, skirting around the periphery of the space, searching. It feels a bit like hunting, darting around people like trees while keeping an eye out for a tuft of grey. She spots Ashe near a column talking to Annette. It’s not that surprising to find the two together she supposes, but she can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. Annette looks very pretty in a forest green gown of lace, her hair pinned up high in an impeccable bun strewn with pearls. Not for the first time Petra wonders if the two are courting each other. She ignores the way her heart seizes at the thought. It’s not any of her business if they are; it will just make convincing Ashe to leave Fódlan that much more difficult.

It feels like an anxious hummingbird has taken residence in her chest and she’s not entirely sure why. With a confidence she doesn’t quite feel, Petra strides over to the two. Annette peers over Ashe’s shoulder with wide blue eyes, cherry painted lips curled and poised to say something when Petra interrupts.

“I have found you!”

When Ashe turns to regard her, Petra’s embarrassed to find it’s not Ashe at all, but his brother.

“Your Highness!” Rowan greets with a dutiful bow, the long coattails of his jacket flaring out with the movement. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Petra flushes and dips her head. “M-my apologies. I have taken you by mistake.”

His smile is a bit strained when he rises, but his tone is affable enough, “Ah, I see. Don’t worry— you are not the first one to do so this evening.”

Annette laughs and the sound is musical. “I said I was sorry!” she swats his arm playfully before turning to Petra, “The resemblance is uncanny, isn’t it?”

At first glance it is. He has the same freckled face, green eyes, and grey hair as Ashe, but he looks a little more polished than his brother; more delicately featured and refined. Next to Annette it’s hard to tell, but he might even be a little taller. His frame is certainly wirier; definitely not the body of a warrior.

“I should be so flattered,” Rowan says, straightening his dark coat. “Being mistaken for the great war hero is an honor I am not sure I deserve.”

Annette chortles around a mouthful of champagne and his ears redden. Petra can’t help smiling, charmed.

“A great honor,” she agrees. “Your brother has been saving many. Myself among them. We were lucky to be fighting alongside him.”

Rowan practically glows. He immediately tempers what had been a positively sunny smile with a polite cough. “I’m sure he would be pleased to hear you say so.”

“And embarrassed!” Annette giggles. “Although she’s not wrong,” she adds thoughtfully. “I doubt I’d be here either if it wasn’t for him.”

Rowan inclines his head. “I’m sure he would say the same of you two. If his stories are to be believed, you two saved his life countless times. Thank you for that,” he adds with a deep bow from the waist.

Annette and Petra exchange an abashed glance at Rowan’s earnestness. Somehow he is even more formal than his brother. If Petra didn’t know of Ashe’s commoner background, she’d guess Rowan was of noble birth. His well-mannered, diplomatic nature and impeccably tailored suit suggest a more similar upbringing to Ferdinand than Dorothea.

“Watching out for each other is how we all got our happy ending,” Annette says quietly, a sweet smiling gracing her doll-like features. Her eyes stray to somewhere in the crowd and Petra follows her line of sight with a sinking heart. 

While Ashe had never _said_ anything about courting Annette, Petra has long suspected they’re more than friends. She’s seen the way Ashe looks at her, after all— never mind the rumors swirling around about the two. Petra has valiantly tried not to put much stock in them. Rumors, she’d found, were seldom true and often only ended up hurting the ones they were about. Still, if any of _these_ ones were true, then it’s unlikely Ashe will accompany her to Brigid. The thought saddens Petra more than she cares to admit. _She_ hasn’t gotten her “happy ending” yet. More work, more struggle awaits her in Brigid. Perhaps it’s for this reason she’s surprised to find Annette’s eyes have settled on Felix.

Petra swallows, ignoring the stutter in her heart. Ashe is nowhere in sight.

“I am not seeing Ashe,” she notes with forced casualness. “Is he not here?”

“I believe he retired early,” Rowan says with a furrowed brow. “Did you need something from him?”

“There are… things I must be discussing with him,” Petra affirms. For some reason she feels uneasy talking about it in front of Annette, but since the woman is still smiling in the direction of the master swordsman, she’s starting to wonder why. Clearly the rumors are wrong and she’d just misjudged the woman’s relationship with Ashe. “I am hoping to be doing so. My return to Brigid is not far off.”

“That’s right!” Annette gasps, blue eyes wide and glassy when she turns her attention back to their conversation. Petra can’t help wondering how many drinks the woman has had this evening. “When do you go back?”

“When the festivities conclude.”

“So not much longer,” Annette frowns. “We should _definitely_ get together some night before you leave! Oh! We’ll have a sendoff party!”

Petra grins. “Every night is being like a party though.”

“Yeah, but this one will be different,” Annette insists, reaching to grasp Petra’s wrist. Her grip is soft, but her fingertips are surprisingly calloused: marks of a magic user. “This one will be for _you_! It could be awhile before we see each other again.”

“True,” Petra acquiesces. “I must be working on _my_ happy ending now.”

Annette’s face falls and there’s an unspoken question in the way Rowan taps his glass, frowning.

“There is still much work to be doing in Brigid,” Petra explains. She pauses: the idea she wants to convey is complicated and needs to be understood regardless, “We are still navigating our way out of vassalage to independence. I will be fighting with hardness to achieve this. It will require many changes.”

“I see,” Annette says, drawing her hand back. “I guess I just thought after the war….”

Petra nods. “I am having discussions with Dimitri tomorrow. I am hoping for the best.”

“You fought at the king’s side,” Rowan says encouragingly, “A good king remembers who his friends are.”

“Yes,” Petra smiles. “I am hoping.”

“He will,” Annette assures, “Dimitri is a very retentive king.”

Rowan grins over the brim of his cup and after a short pause quips, “A royal _retainer_ , as it were.”

Annette laughs, eliciting a shared, pleased chuckle from Rowan. Petra looks at the two confused.

“I do not have understanding. Is this being a joke?”

Rowan blanches slightly at the inquiry, turning a touch pink before rushing into an explanation. Petra blinks slowly, processing. She’s spent eleven years trying to master this language. Not only has she failed to speak it with the competent ease of a native, she’s failed to grasp simple expressions, idioms, puns…. Honestly, Fód _exhausted_ her. It’s a wonder she’s ever been understood at all.

“So it’s just a simple play on words,” he concludes. “Really, it’s hardly a joke. _Definitely_ not something to stress about.”

Petra plasters on an appreciative smile and bobs her head. “Thank you. I have understanding now. I have encountered other word plays before, but they still give me difficulty.”

After a short exchange on the nature of puns and a story featuring Alois, the conversation shifts to what other events the week has in store. Petra has scarcely had time to think about the joust or what that even entails, but Rowan appears to be particularly excited about it. Annette wrinkles her nose in distaste. While there’s supposedly going to be a magic competition, she seems uninterested in competing, stating the levels of testosterone that surround such events generally take the fun out of it for her. Petra nods along with the two of them, intrigued by their mini debate, but otherwise clueless. She’s already had to have Rowan explain a simple turn of phrase; asking either of them to expound upon this further would just be taxing for all of them.

Her main concern is whether or not _she_ will be expected to participate. It sounds like a number of contests will happen simultaneously. She’ll have to look into the specifics later. Fortunately, there are still a few days before it’s set to take place.

“Ah, are you discussing the upcoming tournament?”

Lorenz Gloucester steps out of the crowd and into their little circle, holding a small, rounded glass of amber liquid and smelling strongly of roses and cloves. Annette makes a face, lips puckering like she’d just bit into a lemon. She quickly finishes off her champagne, tipping the flute to swallow even the dregs. Petra tries not let her amusement show; it is possibly the rudest thing she’s ever seen the young woman do.

She’s heard unfavorable tales of Lorenz from Dorothea but has had little interaction with the man herself. He’d always treated her with the utmost courtesy at the academy, but their encounters had usually been limited to chores or the occasional run-in in the hall. During the war they’d had very little contact; he mostly travelled between Garreg Mach and the Alliance after Gronder, once talks had resumed with Claude. While his pompous nature has always rubbed Dorothea the wrong way, Petra doesn’t think he’s any worse than Ferdinand had been during their school days.

“Yes,” Annette responds, poisonously sweet, “We were just talking about which competitions we’re thinking of entering.” Petra raises an eyebrow: maybe they had been tangentially. “Are you planning on entering the magic competition?”

Lorenz chuckles, raising a gloved hand to his mouth to hide a smirk, “Oh, come now, you can’t _possibly_ still be holding a grudge. Besides, against Lysithea I must concede. There simply is no better mage alive. Who else could take on the Death Knight and win?”

Annette’s lips thin, but she doesn’t deny it.

“Moreover, I think I am better suited for the joust itself,” he continues. “Although I suppose I would _also_ do well in the sword and lance matches. Many are my talents, after all,” he smiles. “It would be shame to limit myself to only one field of expertise as you have when _I_ am skilled in so many.”

The thinly veiled insult takes Petra by surprise. Annette looks stricken, her already rosy cheeks darkening further. Rowan takes a long, awkward sip from his cup leaving Petra wishing she had a drink of her own to nurse. Annette takes a moment to recover, a sickly-sweet smile manifesting itself on her suddenly sober face when she does.

“Better to be a master of one than a master of none,” she finally simpers, “If you’ll excuse me.”

She gives the slightest curtsy before darting out into the crowd. Petra considers going after her or scolding Lorenz but hesitates a moment too long to do either.

“Ah, I suppose that was rather rude,” the man sighs, raising a hand to his temple. He takes a shallow sip of his drink before continuing, “Forgive me. Lady Dominic and I… Well, we have a bit of a history. We were schoolmates long before our days at Garreg Mach. I suppose the easiest way to surmise our relationship would be to compare it to one of rivals.”

Petra quirks an eyebrow and is about to say he should be apologizing to _Annette_ rather than the two of them, but Rowan speaks first.

“Did you also go to the Fhirdiad School of Sorcery?”

“Yes, but certain… hm, circumstances required me to leave before I could complete my education.” Attention now focused on Rowan, he frowns, thin eyebrows knitting together, “Forgive me, but who might you be? I confess I thought you someone else.”

Petra grins at Rowan’s resigned look.

“Rowan Ubert,” he bows. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Gloucester.”

“ _Count_ ,” Lorenz corrects. “It’s Count Gloucester now.”

“My apologies,” Rowan says with another dip of his head, the faintest hint of a blush underlining his freckles. “I am not entirely up to date on everyone’s new titles.”

“No apologies necessary,” Lorenz chuckles, although Petra can’t help noting the pleased air surrounding him. “I am still adjusting to it myself. Are you the Lord of Gaspard now? I hear your house has done quite well for itself.”

“Ahh, no,” Rowan fumbles, “I’ve just been acting in my brother’s stead. He’ll take up the title once he returns home.”

Lorenz hums. “ _Ashe_? Really? It’s hard to picture him as a ruling lord.”

“Why is that?” Petra can’t keep herself from asking. Her tone is too sharp to be polite, but she doesn’t care.

Lorenz starts slightly. It’s as if he’d forgotten she was there entirely.

“I mean that with no disrespect, of course! Just that…. Well, he’s never struck me as someone with a head for… courtly affairs.”

“Ashe has many talents,” Petra states hotly. The hummingbird has returned, creating unnecessary havoc in her chest. Why does she feel so heated about this? “I am confident he will be excelling in this also.”

There’s a part of her that wonders if that’s true: Ashe has never mentioned having a particular desire to rule; he’s only ever talked about his dream to become a knight. Never mind that it would be counterintuitive to what she _wants_ to happen. Still, she can’t allow Lorenz to insult him, especially without him here to defend himself.

“O-of course,” Lorenz blanches, dipping his head. “Forgive me,” he smiles sheepishly. “This is not my first glass of the night. Nor, I’m afraid, shall it be my last.”

“It _is_ a time for celebration,” Rowan says diplomatically even though a hint of uncertainty creeps through his voice. He taps his empty glass thoughtfully for a moment. “That being said, would you mind if I picked your brain about something? Having taken charge of Rowe territory, I was wondering what you would recommend in helping the region transition. Especially considering much of it is still in a state of disarray.”

“Ah, here I am your man,” Lorenz chuckles. “However, I make it a point not to discuss politics at parties without a drink in hand.” Before either of them can point out that he _has_ one, he knocks it back with a flourish, “Shall we replenish and find a place to chat?”

When Rowan nods, Lorenz places a hand over his heart and inclines his head to Petra. Clearly she is being dismissed. Rowan smiles apologetically at her, mimicking Lorenz’s action only with a deeper bow from the waist. Petra doesn’t know whether she should feel indignant or relieved that they’re taking their leave of her. She’s starting to understand why Dorothea found the _Count_ insufferable.

Now alone, Petra wonders whether or not she should simply turn in for the evening. It isn’t late by any stretch of the imagination, but she _does_ have to prepare for the meeting tomorrow morning. And, since Ashe had apparently already retired for the night, she’d missed her opportunity to speak with him. It had more or less been the only reason she herself had come to the dance instead of adjourning to a more leisurely pastime. Well, that and her cousins, who she supposed she had abandoned long enough….

Before she can set out in search of her scattered family, a polite tenor interrupts her thoughts.

“Petra, you’re looking quite lovely this evening.”

Petra tries to inject more cheer than dismay into her smile. It’s not Ferdinand’s fault Lorenz is an insufferable, misogynistic elitist. Although the two _are_ cut from similar cloth. He hands her a flute of champagne, which she doesn’t have the heart to tell him she doesn’t care for and clinks his glass against hers.

“Are you enjoying this evening’s festivities?”

“Yes,” she lies breezily, taking a shallow sip of the bubbly liquid. She tries not to make a face as she swallows. “And you?”

He gives her a winning smile, “I am quite in my element.”

He certainly looks it. She can’t fathom wearing velvet at this time of year, but the tailored red jacket _does_ make him appear rather dashing. As does the long, navy cloak, although she personally feels it’s a rather excessive choice. She’s surprised to see his long, wavy locks pulled back with a ribbon rather than cut; he used to claim he’d been too busy for a trim. Petra thinks it’s more likely he’s grown to like the somewhat rakish air long hair has given him.

“It is less so for me,” Petra admits.

“I am not surprised,” he says. “There certainly hasn’t been a congregation of noble houses this large since… Well, since the last king of Faerghus had _his_ crowning, perhaps. And since we are all united as one now, that means a great deal more people.”

Petra’s smile begins to wan. While she’s grown fond of Ferdinand over the years, he’s still a bit of a snob. It’s surprising in a way given how humbled he was during the war. Even so, if she has to engage in more Fódlanite court groveling tonight she might snap.

Ferdinand cocks his head, frowning. “Is something the matter?”

“N-no. I am just… Apologies. I am just feeling a headache starting.”

His frown turns lopsided. “Lorenz?”

Petra grins sheepishly. At least he’s perceptive sometimes. “Perhaps.”

“He can be… a bit much,” Ferdinand admits, “But know he has only the noblest intentions at heart!”

Petra nods. She’ll take his word for it. For the majority of her conversation with the man she hadn’t seemed to exist, after all.

Ferdinand thumbs his champagne flute uncertainly for a moment, face pensive. He parts his lips as if to speak only to close them. A few seconds later he repeats the process.

“What is it?”

“I… received some troubling news yesterday. I wanted to discuss it with you before the meeting tomorrow.”

Petra stiffens. “News? About what?”

He looks around shiftily before taking her glass and setting them on a nearby table. “Would you care to dance? I think it would be best if we weren’t interrupted and it’ll be easier to keep people from eavesdropping.”

Petra nods and heads out onto the dancefloor. Once Ferdinand has arranged their arms and stepped into the line of other whirling couples, she remembers she has no idea what to do.

“Ah, m-my apologies,” she stammers, tripping over herself. Heat flushes her cheeks. “I am not good at the dancing.”

He chuckles, pulling her toward him. “Then worry not for _I_ am an excellent dancer.”

She can’t help laughing at that and he gives her a charming smile. The band is playing something downtempo and the choreography seems simple; she follows Ferdinand’s feet to form small boxes across the marble floor. Once muscle memory kicks in, she looks up to the man’s unusually serious face.

“What is it we need to be discussing?”

His lips tug to one side. Hesitantly he starts, “I received a letter from Aegir yesterday. It stated that Brigidi ships were spotted just off the coast. Do you know anything about this?”

Petra shakes her head.

“The letter said there were at least three. Galleys, big, same build, same flags.”

“Is this a problem?”

“Well, it’s _odd_ ,” Ferdinand says. “The harbormaster hasn’t received any docking requests from Brigid in the last three months, so it begs to question what they were doing there. And the fact that they’re galleys.”

“Merchant ships, I am thinking,” Petra reasons, belatedly placing ‘galleys’ as a type of ship. “On the way from Morfis. The sea is being harsh this time of year. Perhaps it is being an emergency stop?”

“It’s not out of the question,” Ferdinand agrees, “Although they weren’t flying the typical colors of merchant ships. There is also speculation of something having happened in Bergliez territory. Exactly _what_ remains unclear, but their harbormaster is missing and the lighthouse has been burned to the ground.”

Petra stills.

“What are you saying?”

Ferdinand frowns, coaxing her start moving again in order to keep other dancers from bumping into them. He looks nervously around them as they fall back into step.

“I am not saying anything,” he promises quietly, drawing her closer. “It _could_ be a coincidence. I just thought you should know before discussions begin tomorrow. Duke Gerth has already heard about it and I will likely be called to comment on what I know. I did not want you and your family to be blindsided.”

Petra swallows, mind reeling, and tries not to let how unsettling this news is show on her face.

“I am being sure they are merchant ships,” she says decisively.

Ferdinand nods, but there is doubt in his green eyes and in the corners of his mouth. “I hope so. For all our sakes.”

They finish the dance in silence, parting once the music comes to a pause. He bows over her hand, ever the gentleman, and offers some words of encouragement before taking his leave. Petra wanders off the dance floor to the sidelines as if in a daze. Her stomach knots. Brigidi ships in a territory so close to Bergliez…. What could that mean? Petra didn’t like any of the scenarios that came to mind. Better to believe they were merchant ships blown inland from a storm.

And yet the war was so recently over. It’s possible— Petra shakes her head. _No_. They were _merchant_ ships. They had to be.

“Who. Was. _That_?”

Petra turns with a barely suppressed groan to see Marina strolling over, taking liberal glances over her shoulder at the recently departed nobleman. When she finally turns to face Petra proper it’s with a perfectly arched brow.

“A _friend_.”

“ _Another_ ‘friend?’” her cousin teases, handing her yet another drink she doesn’t want.

“ _Yes_ ,” Petra snaps. “As I said before, Ashe and I are just _friends_. The same is true of Ferdinand and me.”

“Ferdínaand,” Marina hums, tripping over the syllables slightly. At Petra’s deadpan she merely grins and waggles her eyebrows once. “Handsome _friend_.”

Petra clucks her tongue before clenching her jaw. She’s not in the mood to be teased. There are so many other, more important things to deal with than convincing her boy-crazy cousin that she didn’t want to sleep with every male she knew. Perhaps sensing Petra’s testiness, Marina’s smirk dissipates to a more serious expression.

“I was wondering where you had gone,” she says in between sips of wine, “You practically ran out of the dining hall. I thought maybe something had happened. I didn’t realize you were meeting a _friend_.”

“ _Marina_ ….”

“I’m only teasing. _Although_ ….”

“Flame spirit _help_ me!”

“No need to invoke the Flame,” Marina chides, expression darkening. She takes another mouthful of wine, lingering on it with a more subdued look. “I’m sorry, alright? I really _was_ worried about you. You seemed annoyed all through dinner, I thought…” she trails off.

Petra puffs out a cheek, her annoyance battling the guilt she feels having left her cousins alone. After a moment she deflates.

“I’m sorry I rushed off without saying anything,” she apologizes by way of a peace offering. “I had to find someone.”

Marina grins impishly over the brim of her cup. “A boy?”

Petra rolls her eyes. “Not that I see how it matters, but yes.”

“Ferdínaand?”

Petra purses her lips, patience thinning once more. Marina backs off with a shrug of her shoulder, “Well, he _is_ one of the more handsome guys I’ve seen since coming here.”

Petra blinks, momentarily thrown and wonders what that says about her cousin’s type. She decides to throw her a bone: “Is it the hair?”

Marina grins. Petra snorts.

“Where’s Lukas?”

Her cousin makes a dismissive hand motion and flips her long hair over her shoulder. It cascades over her back in a thick, purple wave. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since dinner. I was kind of hoping you’d have run into him.”

“What about Grandfather?”

“He’s sitting at a table near the entrance making small talk with… What was his name? Duke… Gerth?”

Petra nods.

“Well, he looks about as happy as you might expect. I think he plans to head to bed soon. He told me to make sure Lukas stays out of trouble, but I can’t do that if I can’t find him.”

Petra frowns. The ballroom _is_ enormous, but so is Lukas. It shouldn’t be too hard to find him. As if following her line of thought, Marina gives a flippant wave to the room.

“He’ll turn up. I told Nadya and Vera to keep an eye out and I imagine Vlad is already with him, so…” she shrugs.

Petra nods. So long as he had attendants with him, he should be fine.

“You look tired, Pet,” Marina frowns. “Are you alright?”

Petra nods absently although she feels far from it. She’s still reeling from Ferdinand’s news and worries how it will affect tomorrow’s talks. Whether or not they were merchant ships off the Aegir coast, Petra’s wise enough to know it’s not a great look for Brigid. But what could be done? She didn’t have enough information to make a proper rebuttal for any potential concerns that might be raised at the meeting— particularly those of the duke.

“Pettie?”

Petra massages her temple, belatedly registering the old nickname. It has been a _long_ time since someone had called her that— so long it may as well have been another life. She places her untouched glass of wine down on the nearby table.

She hesitates for a moment before insisting, “I’m just tired. I should probably rest.”

The disappointment that flashes over Marina’s face is fleeting, but Petra catches it all the same. It makes her stomach squirm guiltily.

“I understand. You must be nervous about tomorrow.”

Petra tenses. She had hoped she’d avoided letting her nerves show the last few days lest she seem weak. Even though her family would be there beside her, it is likely going to be her and Grandfather helming the conversation.

“Are you not?” Petra asks. It’s the closest thing to an affirmation she’ll make.

“Not particularly.”

Petra gives her cousin an incredulous look, but for once Marina’s expression gives little away. After a moment, the woman merely shrugs and takes a sip of wine, swallowing whatever unspoken thoughts she had with it.

“Either things will change or… they won’t,” she says finally. “I don’t see the point of dwelling on it.”

Petra holds her gaze, but Marina doesn’t change her stance. After a moment, she relents with a sigh. If only it were that simple.

“All the same, you and Lukas should try to get to bed early, too.”

A mischievous grin, “No promises.”

It will have to do. She kisses Marina on the cheek and bids her goodnight. She doubts even when she reaches her room sleep will claim her, but at least there it will be quiet. As she approaches the entrance she nods at Vera and Nadya, clustered near the corner with two other attendants she hasn’t met yet. They all acknowledge her with the standard three finger salute of Brigidi warriors and she feels relieved to know at least they’ll look after her cousins. Grandfather seems to have already departed the ballroom for bed; all but one of the tables near the entrance are empty.

The further she gets from the din, the less her head throbs. It’s a step in the right direction. Her body feels heavy and sluggish though. She barely has the energy to change and rinse off before sinking into the featherdown mattress. It’s still a little strange to feel so comfortable before dosing off; there are no monsters or enemy troops to keep watch for, no cold, hard ground to curl up on. This is what peace feels like, she supposes. It has been so long she’d nearly forgotten. It feels… nice.

To her intense surprise, sleep comes quickly and with little bargaining. It isn’t until she hears a knocking at her door that she even realizes that she _had_ fallen asleep. The fire is mere embers, suggesting some time has passed, but as the room is still fully dark, morning appears to still be far off. At the second set of knocking, alertness comes in a hazy adrenaline spike. She throws off the covers and wraps herself in one of the furs bunched at the foot of the bed before answering the door.

Nadya, still dressed for the ball, gives her a contrite smile and a half-hearted three finger salute.

“Sorry to bother you, Your Highness, but, uh…” she wets her lips, contemplatively, “the princess has requested your assistance in helping out with the prince.”

“Are they alright?”

Nadya minutely moves her head side to side, grimacing. “Uh… Yeah, mostly,” she decides.

Concern quickly starts to give way to anger: “ _’Mostly_?’”

Petra’s clipped tone causes Nadya’s lax demeanor to sober. She straightens.

“They’re drunk, Your Highness,” she says sheepishly. “It wouldn’t be a problem if the prince wasn’t starting to get… well, _belligerent_.” Petra’s lips thin. “The princess is worried he’s gonna try to fight someone, which,” she stretches the word, “wouldn’t be _that_ much of an issue if they weren’t like, _tiny_. The princess is worried the prince is gonna utterly destroy ‘em and in light of tomorrow’s meeting….”

Petra grinds her teeth.

“Let me get dressed.”

Somewhat rudely, she shuts the door in the woman’s face and lights the lamp by her bedside. The dress she wore earlier is too much of a hassle to put back on with its intricate fastenings and ties. Instead she settles on a pair of leggings and a simple tunic. She fastens a thin, black belt outfitted with a dagger haphazardly over the billowy blouse before pulling on her worn, trusted boots. As she throws the door back open she finishes tying her hair up. She hopes there aren’t any traces of residual makeup on her face; the charcoal she had lined her eyes with tended to stick and smear despite a proper face washing.

Nadya leads them to what feels like the other side of the castle. The hallways are mostly silent as they walk and the candles lighting the way have burned low enough that it must be close or past the witching hour.

“Where are they?” Petra finally asks after more than several minutes have passed.

“In some Fódlanite lordling’s study,” Nadya smiles coyly over her shoulder, “they had an after party of sorts.”

Petra stares at the woman’s back, perplexed. “Doing what exactly?”

“Gambling and drinking, mostly.”

Petra sighs heavily. Leave it to Lukas to not have his fill at the _actual_ party.

“In some respects it’s calmed down considerably. There had been a lot more people earlier. When I left, the prince was challenging a guy to an arm-wrestling contest. I think they were placing bets on the outcome.” The woman gives a throaty laugh, “As if the _prince_ would lose against some tiny Fódlanite lordling. Feisty though, I’ll give ‘im that.”

Petra chews her lip. _Anyone_ would look tiny next to Lukas and yet she has a sneaking suspicion of who it might be.

“Did they have blue hair?”

“Yeah,” Nadya sounds amused, “almost shockingly.”

Well, that isn’t good. Hopefully Lukas hasn’t figured out exactly _who_ Caspar is— or more accurately, whose family he belongs to.

After another dozen or so stairs and two wrong turns, they arrive. They don’t appear to be at any specific lord’s chambers, but some type of leisure room. A “cabinet,” she thinks it was called at Duke’s Gerth’s estate. They’re greeted to the sounds of whooping and hollering upon entering, but with the exception of one, all of the room’s occupants are obscured by the heavy, wooden door. Nadya zips around it to rejoin the fray. Petra is more cautious, noting the slumbering woman on the loveseat directly across from her.

Annette stirs at the cries of dismay and jubilation, but only to curl into herself further, tucking an elbow under her chin. Her previously immaculate hair has mostly come undone, bangs dusting her parted mouth, and her shoes have mysteriously gone missing. Given the numerous, empty glasses littering the floor next to her, she appears to be sleeping off her drinks. Petra peers warily around the door, afraid of who else she might find.

“Oh, hello, Petra,” Linhardt drawls, causing her to jump. He’s seated in an armchair so close to the door it’s a wonder she and Nadya hadn’t hit him with it upon entering. “Have you come to collect your troublesome cousin?”

His feet dangle over an armrest and a cloak is spread across him for want of a blanket. Petra purses her lips and shuts the door behind her, eyes trailing from Lindhart’s languorous pose to the ruckus going on just a few feet away.

“Which one is being the troublesome one?”

“Is that not obvious?” he asks without looking up from the heavy tome in his lap. “It will be.”

As if on cue there is a loud _thump_ and an eruption of colorful exclamations, equal parts disappointed and triumphant. 

“ _I win_!” Lukas cheers in slurred Brigidi. “Not even the forest spirit could help you, little man! Witness Brigid pride!”

on!” Caspar whines. “Best three out of four!”

“Caspar,” Linhardt sighs, “that _was_ the third time.”

“ _Fuck_. Best… five out of seven then!”

Petra steps into the space proper, resigned, and heads toward the source of the commotion.

“Good luck,” Linhardt breathes as she passes by him.

The room is a cramped, brightly lit rectangle. There’s a slight haze of clove-scented smoke curling above the low-hanging chandeliers. A strange assortment of chairs and people populate the right corner of the room with the majority seated at a scarred, square table. Even with a number of empty seats, there are too many chairs set to fit everyone comfortably. Maybe that explains why some of the crowd has broken off: Marina is reclining on a chaise not too far from the table, nursing a glass of wine. Vera sits on one of the armrests, holding a half-full carafe and Nadya drapes herself impishly over the chaise’s back, making snide quips to the two with poignant looks at the room’s other occupants. Marina snickers and takes a sip from her cup, clearly entertained.

It sparks agitation in Petra. Did Marina _really_ need her help handling Lukas or is this merely her way of punishing her for abandoning them in the ballroom? Either way she wants this dealt with so she can go back to bed; tomorrow’s meeting looms even closer than it had before and this time she’d be lucky to fall asleep with such frayed nerves.

Spying Ferdinand among the table’s occupants doesn’t help, either. Under the twinge of annoyance is hurt: did he not care about tomorrow’s conference? The way he raises his glass to clink against Lorenz’s suggests not.

Petra rolls her shoulders, willing her disappointment to ripple off her back with the motion. She must focus instead on the present task at hand: getting her cousins out of there.

Unfortunately, as Nadya said, Lukas had indeed challenged Caspar to an arm-wrestling match. Several, in fact, if the ongoing outcries were anything to go by. It hardly constitutes as a life or death situation, especially since Lukas seems more like a happy drunk than an argumentative one. He didn’t seem like he was particularly bothering anyone either. Certainly not Caspar. He stands hunched over the table, biting his lip in concentration as he tries to hold his own against her brute of a cousin. It’s a valiant effort. Lukas, still seated, looks positively smug.

“C-come on, Caspar!” Bernadetta cries, slapping the table with her palms. “You can do it!”

Caspar grunts, a vein starting to throb at his temple. Despite his obvious strain, Lukas’s arm doesn’t budge; his grin merely grows.

“Yeah, Big Bro!” Dorothea laughs, hitting the table with one hand twice, a glass of wine raised precariously in her other. “Show him he’s not the only big, strong man here!”

“Arghh, don’t call me that!” Caspar groans. “I _hate it_ when you do that!”

Lorenz chortles two seats away. “Come now, he’s already beat you fair and square three times now. At this point you’re just embarrassing yourself.”

“Nah,” Caspar huffs, “I’m gonna get ‘em this time! Just you wait!”

“He’s right, Caspar,” Linhardt laments from his far-off perch. “The result’s just going to be the same. Look at the size of him.”

“Why don’t you go to bed if you’re not gonna cheer me on!” Caspar barks back, face red with exertion.

“Because then I’d be lonely.”

Caspar grunts. Lukas mimes yawning. After another minute of Bernadetta, Dorothea and Ferdinand shouting words of encouragement, Lukas stops toying with his prey. In one fluid motion he pins Caspar’s hand to the table. The outrage is immediate. Bernadetta boos loudly, both thumbs facing down. Dorothea just laughs before giving Caspar a comical frown. Ferdinand grasps the man’s shoulder sympathetically, a strained smile tugging at his lips.

“You gave it your all, my friend,” he says before handing Lorenz some coins.

Lorenz chuckles into his drink, intolerably smug, and adds them to the rather large stack in front of him.

“I do believe I am missing some wagers against our undisputed champion,” Lorenz says pointedly at Dorothea and Bernadetta. Bernadetta makes a face before pushing her coins toward him.

“Dorothea?”

The woman bats her eyes, “I don’t remember betting.”

Lorenz’s lips pinch together for the briefest of moments as Dorothea takes a coquettish sip from her glass.

“Very well. I suppose you may need your meager earnings if we are to continue playing, after all.” Dorothea chokes. When she recovers it’s with a scathing glare directed at the count. Oblivious of it, he continues, “Shall we switch back to cards then?”

Rowan nods from his seat next to him, eyes flitting from the man to Dorothea uncertainly. When Lorenz throws back his glass, Petra notices a small stack of coins disappear from his pile and reappear next to Dorothea’s. Rowan winks at the blushing woman.

“For your trouble,” he murmurs, inclining his head toward her.

Lukas knocks the top of the table near Lorenz’s stash before twisting his wrist and motioning toward himself. “Pay up.”

Lorenz stares, perplexed, before casting a look at Seamus Gerth. The man is seated next to Lukas and has his head in his hand,. “I’m sorry— What does he want?”

“I believe he’s asking you to pay him,” Seamus says through a yawn.

“Oh. Oh! Of course,” Lorenz divvies up some of his coins and passes them to her cousin with a smile. Loudly he says, “ _Your winnings_.”

Petra holds back an exasperated sigh: as if speaking louder would somehow suddenly impart understanding. Here at least the money talks. Lukas flashes him a toothy grin and leans back in his chair, one of the large silver coins rolling back and forth over his knuckles before disappearing entirely. He picks up the cards scattered around the table and begins shuffling the deck.

“Place your bets,” he says thickly, dealing them out. When the table frowns he repeats it to Seamus who belatedly translates, tossing a coin to the center of the table.

Petra walks over to Marina and her attendants, unsure whether to chew her out or collapse on the sofa next to her. Marina smiles at her approach, sitting up from her lounged position to make room.

“Pettie!” she greets. “You’re here!”

“I would much rather be asleep in my bed,” she says, some testiness in her voice, “but I was told you needed my help with Lukas…?”

“Mm,” Marina assesses the table for a moment before draining her cup. “I think we could use some water and snacks, don’t you? Vera, Nadya, would you mind?”

The two women exchange a somewhat perplexed look before disappearing to do as bid. Once they’re out of ear shot, Marina sets her empty glass down and gestures for Petra to join her on the chaise. She gives her an apologetic smile when she does.

“I’m sorry to have woken you— really, I _am_! I was just… concerned. We’ve all been drinking and then this one,” she gestures to Caspar, “showed up and I just thought…” she pauses, voice lowering to a whisper, “He’s a Bergliez, isn’t he?”

Petra evaluates her cousin and cautiously nods. Marina sucks in a breath.

“I knew it.”

“Lukas doesn’t appear to.”

“No,” Marina agrees, “but I was afraid he might and I didn’t know what I would do if….” She trails off with an uncertain motion of her wrist.

Petra bobs her head tiredly. It’s understandable. _Of course_ her family would see Caspar as an enemy: their king died well before his prime because of his family. It had been a hard truth to swallow when she’d found out too. But that was many years ago now. Caspar had proved himself a better man than his father and a loyal friend. Why should she hold a grudge against him for something he’d had no control over? She didn’t expect her cousins to understand— at least not yet. If he ever came to visit her in Brigid…. Well, that’d be something to navigate then.

“Is he…. He’s not a friend of yours, is he?”

Petra hesitates before affirming. Marina looks aghast.

“Pettie… _Really_?”

“Caspar is not his father,” Petra states.

“’His _father_?’” Marina gasps. “He’s that bastard’s _son_?!”

Petra doesn’t respond. She does her best not to react at all.

They’re silent for a few minutes, each observing the table of merry gamblers. Lukas and Caspar appear to have gotten into a betting war, but even without understanding each other’s banter, they’re playfully cocksure. Petra can sense Marina itching to say something and waits. Finally, she starts, “If it were me, I don’t think I’d suffer him to draw breath. I trust you have your reasons…?”

“Caspar is not his father,” Petra repeats. “He’s… He’s a good man.”

Marina nods, accepting if disbelieving. They lapse into silence. After a rowdy win for Lukas that has Caspar standing and banging on the table, Nadya and Vera return with a pitcher of water and a charcuterie board. Petra takes a few bits of salted meat for politeness’s sake and a glass of cool water. Nadya tosses a couple grapes at Marina’s open and expectant mouth, all of which end up landing in her cousin’s lap. They burst into laughter at the failed catch and Petra finds herself smiling despite herself.

Another upset at the poker table shifts her attention. Caspar has stood up again and is pointing at Lukas.

“H-hey! I had three fives so why is _he_ taking the pot?!”

“He had a ‘flush,’” Rowan explains while folding his cards, “that trumps ‘three of a kind.’”

“Ah, I knew you’d catch on quickly!” Lorenz squeezes Rowan’s shoulder affectionately. “A protégé in the making!” Rowan’s smile is uneven and sheepish. He drinks deeply from his square glass of amber liquid and looks flushed when he sets the empty cup. Petra can’t help noting the appraising look Dorothea gives him and raises an eyebrow. Has her friend perhaps been charmed by the young Ubert tonight?

Caspar sits with a huff and crosses his arms. “Aw, whatever! Just deal ‘em again!”

Lukas snickers and says something so slurred even Petra doesn’t understand him, but the smug grin is self-explanatory. He shuffles the cards thrown back at him with some difficulty before dispensing five to each person.

“How long have they been at this?” Petra asks around a yawn.

“ _Hours_ ,” Nadya whines.

Marina swats her attendant’s arm playfully before turning her attention to Petra. “Lukas has declared he won’t leave until he’s either broke or taken all of their money.”

“Which Roses has _tons_ of,” Nadya moans, waving at Lorenz, “so I doubt that’ll be any time soon.”

“As I’ve said, you’re free to go.”

“What? And miss out on all the fun? I’ll stay.” With an impish grin Nadya adds, “Who knows, maybe the Fóds will get up on the table and ‘dance’ for us again.”

Marina doubles over her freshened cup, spitting wine back into it and the three descend into a fit of giggles. Petra raises a brow, mystified. What exactly had she missed while sleeping?

Wiping tears from her eyes, Marina points to Annette, “Earlier that girl got up on the table with a _very_ attractive red-haired man and… and someone else and… ‘danced.’”

“Till she nearly fell off the table, anyway.”

“And that handsome guy was pulled off by who I can only assume was his outraged betrothed.”

“Those two never came back, did they?” Vera muses.

“I don’t think so,” Marina smirks. “Too busy ‘punishing’ him for his behavior, I bet.”

Nadya squints at Rowan, “Isn’t that the other guy they forced up on the table with them?”

Marina adjusts in her seat.

“No,” she switches her soiled wine for water, waving away Vera’s attempt to refill the glass. “It was someone else.”

“But he looks—”

“In any case,” Marina presses on, ignoring Nadya’s frown, “Lukas caught her and a few people made a fuss, but she just laughed so was deemed fine.”

“Passed out at the table soon after though,” Nadya grins.

“It was foolish to challenge the prince to a drinking contest,” Vera remarks, picking at her nails. “Although the amount she drank _is_ impressive.”

“Especially for one as little as she,” Nadya agrees.

“Though she be but little, she is fierce,” Petra murmurs, recalling the terrifying fireballs that had shot past her head on the battlefield. She can still feel their phantom heat, hear the screams of those set aflame. “I would not underestimate her.”

Marina cocks her head and looks at her with slanted eyes. “Spoken like one who knows from experience….”

She looks like she wants to add something, but whatever it is goes unspoken. It gnaws at Petra all the same. None of them truly know Annette or what she is capable of. Judging her based off of a night of celebration is unfair.

“Some,” Petra shrugs, then, “Is Lukas good at cards?”

“ _Very_ ,” Nadya says.

Petra sighs. Of course he is. 

“He gambles a lot with the Fóds back home,” Marina says, popping a grape in her mouth. At Petra’s confusion, she elaborates, “The occupiers from Adrestia. And _I’d_ say he probably loses about as much as he wins. Did you know he _stole_ one of my necklaces and _lost_ it?!”

Vera hides her smile behind her hand, but Nadya lets out a hearty chuckle.

“Ooh, he was lucky he had the Flame protecting him when Rina found out!”

“He wouldn’t have _survived_ if he hadn’t,” Marina says through a mouthful of fruit. “Dirty, little _thief_.”

Petra snorts and contemplates her next course of action. She herself hasn’t played a lot of card games, never mind for money, but if it’s the only way to usher this party to a close….

“He better hope the Flame is _still_ on his side,” Petra says, rising from the chaise, “now that _I’m_ here.”

As she makes her way to the table she nods at Vlad, leaning against the wall behind Lukas. He gives her a tired, three-finger salute against his chest before returning his attention to the table. Lukas is cursing under his breath and, with a sour turn of his mouth, places his cards face down in front of him. Caspar lets out a whoop amidst the rest of the table’s grumblings and makes a production of dragging his winnings toward him. Lukas leans back in his chair with an agitated huff and slight rapt of his fist.

“Hey, I didn’t deal ‘em!” Caspar says with cheeky grin. “Though I’d be happy to wrestle ya again if you want!”

“Lil’ man never shuts up,” Lukas waves his hand dismissively at Caspar. “Like a tiny dog. Yiyiyiyip! All bark and no bite.”

Vlad lets out a humorless snort and Caspar’s lips pinch in confusion.

“What’s he sayin’?” he asks Seamus.

“I, uh…” the man squints at Lukas as if that might help. “Something about a… dog?” He looks around as if half expecting to see one. “I think that’s what he said.”

“He is calling _you_ a dog,” Petra says exasperatedly. “It is seeming my cousin is being a sore loser.”

There’s a chorus of her name and the raising of hands and drinks upon noticing her. Though affectionate, the sudden attention is as startling as it is embarrassing. Lukas bangs a fist on the table before rising to crush her against him.

“Petra!” he roars, grinning ear to ear. It makes the intricate markings around his right eye come alive. 

He reeks of spiced rum and the undone gold fastenings of his coat dig into her. She’s surprised to find him looking so cavalier amongst so many strangers; his tattooed chest is mostly exposed, having apparently forgone an undershirt, and his shawl is slung over the back of his chair, mostly pooled on the floor in a puddle of blue silk and gold tassels. His royal braid appears to be the only thing still fully intact; it coils around itself on the top of his head like a snake, leaving the shaved sides of his head bare but for the swirling, inked designs she’s yet to decipher.

“Shoulda known you’d find us eventually!”

He squeezes her, his breath a gentle rumble in his chest, before releasing her with a firm pat on the shoulder. It takes her a moment to regain her bearings. When she does, he’s already reseated himself at the table to deal out another hand.

“I was told you were causing trouble,” she states, following him.

“Me? Never.” He throws a couple coins to the center of the table. “Just seein’ what the Fóds have to offer.”

“Do I need to remind you about what we’re doing tomorrow? _Today_ ,” she corrects when Lukas scowls. “It’s well past the witching hour. Don’t you think it’s time for bed?”

“The witching hour? It’s still early yet then!” He turns to Seamus and snaps his fingers, “Waiting on you, guy. Place your bet. _Bet_.’”

Seamus squints, lips parted in confusion. When Lukas snaps and points to the betting pot, he belatedly tosses a coin in.

“Tch. Cheapskate.”

“I understands yous,” Seamus huffs in rough Brigidi.

“Only half the time. I’ve had more interesting talks with the yippy dog than with you this evening and I don’t even know what he’s sayin’!”

Seamus stares balefully at him for a moment and then tosses another coin into the pot. Petra’s pretty sure he didn’t quite follow but had gathered enough to recognize he’d been insulted. He pours two fingers worth of amber liquid in his empty glass and knocks it back in a single, pained looking gulp.

“Lukas,” Petra sighs. “It’s time for bed. If Grandfather knew this is how you were spending the night—”

“Grandfather is an old man,” Lukas dismisses with a flippant gesture, “and _I_ am a young man. The Flame still burns bright within me. I don’t need sleep.”

“Maybe _you_ don’t,” Petra spits, “but _I_ certainly would like to go back to bed.”

“Then perhaps you’re an old man too.” He laughs. “Oh, don’t be mad cos’. It’s a party! Lighten up! Come,” he motions for her to sit, “have a drink with me and my new friends.”

Apparently scolding hadn’t been the right approach— not that she _really_ thought it would be. She’d have to play. And if Lukas lost all his money then so be it.

Petra sits in the empty seat between Dorothea and Seamus with a half apologetic smile.

“I hope you don’t mind me joining?”

Seamus gives her a cold look and shrugs. He scoots his chair a fraction closer to Lukas to allow her to slip in beside him, but otherwise ignores her presence. Dorothea is more welcoming. She clasps her hand in an affectionate squeeze and coos, “Of course we don’t mind!”

“In fact, I insist,” Ferdinand chimes, raising his half empty glass toward her. His face is flushed with drink and there is the tiniest hint of slurring when he speaks. “It has been an absolute pleasure getting to know your family, but it has seemed quite rude to be doing so without you.”

“Perhaps you’d be so kind to enlighten us on what the prince says,” Lorenz hints with a cordial nod, “Lord Gerth has done a commendable job thus far, but I feel only a true native can really translate such… particular vernacular.”

Seamus huffs from behind his cards. “I can assure you that anything the prince has had to say outside of rules and betting has been of little consequence.”

“Jeez. If you’re so mad about being here, why don’t you just go?” Caspar asks, folding his cards and handing them to Lukas.

“Because, as I’ve said, I’ve been instructed to act as a translator for the prince and princess by my father. I can only be relieved of my duty once they retire, which,” he sighs, thrusting his cards toward Lukas, “I fear may never happen.”

“But you barely speak their language,” Caspar points out with a frown.

“I am well aware.”

“What’s he goin’ on about?” Lukas asks, glancing at Petra as he picks up Seamus’s cards. “He’s been pretty quiet till now.”

Petra waits to respond until she’s caught Seamus’s eyes. Slow and deliberately, she says, “I can assure you it’s of little consequence.”

Seamus looks like a deer noticing its hunter before the arrow. He swallows and nervously pours himself another drink. Petra continues staring till he’s finished it, noting Lukas’s quirked eyebrow from her periphery. Sensing that Seamus has learned his place, she shifts her focus to the table at large.

“What is it you have been playing?” she asks, injecting forced levity into her voice.

“Various games of poker,” Dorothea answers, “Well, mostly. Since things have calmed down, at least. Although, I guess it hasn’t been _that_ calm since Caspar joined us.”

“Oi,” Caspar grunts. “I’ve just been matching everybody else’s energy!”

Petra spares him a grin. “Yes, I am hearing there was… _dancing_ earlier,” she says with a poignant look at Annette. “And there being more people?”

Caspar snorts and there are a few amused looks shared around the table.

“It was certainly… _lively_ ,” Lorenz chuckles, sparing the sleeping girl a glance. “I never would have guessed that the Lady Dominic had such a _wild_ side. Although, to be fair, I suppose Sylvain is at fault for such a spectacle.”

“And also probably why he and Ingrid are no longer here,” Dorothea adds.

“I’d say,” Rowan begins hesitantly, fingers tapping against his empty glass, “the prince’s _drinking_ _games_ are really to blame.”

Bernadetta nods and the action reminds Petra of an inchworm given the way the woman’s chin rests on the table. “Bernie’s never drunk so much in her _life_.”

Dorothea rubs the woman’s back soothingly. “He certainly had us at a disadvantage. I can’t remember the last time I tasted something so foul.”

Lorenz snorts, but for once keeps his quip to himself. Dorothea shoots him a withering glare.

“E-either way,” Ferdinand says loudly, looking between the two, “it was certainly a potent brew. Too potent, perhaps, for those of us not familiar with stronger spirits.”

Rowan nods, wryly adding, “I can’t imagine my brother getting on the table otherwise.”

Petra’s heart stutters.

“Ashe was being here too?”

Dorothea squeezes her hand under the table and gives her a teasing smile.

“Not for very long,” she assures. “Maybe an hour or two? He left shortly after Sylvain and Annette hoisted him onto the table.” She smirks, “I don’t think he liked being forced to dance.”

“Being made a fool of, more like,” Lorenz chuckles. The noise quickly tapers into a cough at Rowan’s level look. Hastily, “Due to no fault of his own, of course!”

“Man, I wish we were here to see that,” Caspar whines. “But _somebody_ wanted to bathe first.”

“And I don’t regret that decision,” Linhardt retorts quietly from his lounged position. “If anything I’m all the more grateful for it.”

Petra tries not to let her frustration at having missed Ashe yet again show. “I see….”

“Hey!” Lukas slaps the table, “finish your conversation later. It’s time to play— and to drink!”

Banging his cup on the tabletop, he tosses its contents back in a single gulp and quickly replenishes it. He gestures for everyone else to do the same, wagging the nearly empty jug of amber liquid by him suggestively. Seamus pushes his glass toward Lukas, resigned, and the other men follow suit with differing levels of enthusiasm. Dorothea raises her wineglass in polite refusal and Bernadetta vigorously shakes her head, eyes wide.

“No,” she moans, “I-if I drink any more I’ll die!”

The table shares an amused chuckle and Dorothea pats the woman’s shoulder sympathetically.

“I’m impressed you’ve made it this far,” she praises. “I don’t think I could have stomached more than the glass I had. You had three!”

“Yeah, and she’ll probably live to regret it!” Caspar chortles. “This shit is _strong_!”

“A toast!” Lukas shouts, looking around wildly. “Petra, why don’t you have a drink? You need a drink!”

“ _No_ ,” Petra says firmly, “I’m fine without—”

“Vlad!” Lukas shoots over his shoulder, slapping the table, “Get my cousin a glass!” He squints, a mischievous smile splitting his face, “You get one too!”

“ _Lukas_ ,” Petra scolds, “Drinking is the last thing I want to—"

“A toast!”

“A toast,” Seamus repeats sullenly.

“A toast to my newfound friends!”

He waits to continue until Vlad has procured Petra and himself small, square glasses of the sickly-sweet liquor. She accepts hers begrudgingly. The pungency of the amber liquid makes her eyes water, but there’s something distinctly familiar about the smell. It reminds her of nights under the stars, smoke and ash, and the lull of ocean waves. It reminds her of home.

“If you cheat, may you cheat death!” Lukas bellows, startling her (and everyone else) to attention. When he springs up from his seat, liquid splashes from his cup onto the tabletop and some of Seamus’s jacket sleeve. The man doesn’t seem to notice, staring into his glass as if it has the answers on how to tactfully retreat from tonight’s revelry. Undeterred, Lukas uses his cup to wildly gesticulate what must seem like incomprehensible gibberish to everyone else. His speech is so thick and slurred it’s a wonder Petra can understand him. 

“If you steal,” he grins conspiratorially, turning to look in Dorothea’s direction, “may you steal a woman’s heart.”

He winks at her with a waggle of his eyebrows. She chokes on a laugh, responding to the flirtatious action with a curious smile followed by a questioning look at Petra.

“If you fight!” Lukas roars, swinging his now nearly empty cup toward Petra and Vlad, “May you fight for a brother!”

“Oh Goddess,” Seamus grumbles, a hand dragging down the side of his face, “He’s still not done?”

“What on earth is he saying?” Lorenz whispers, a look of amused consternation on his pale face.

“And if you drink,” Lukas beams, taking them all in, “then may you drink with me!”

He raises about a sip’s worth of drink left and knocks it back greedily, smacking his lips once finished. Petra gives the rest of the confused table a contrite look.

“My cousin…. He is happy having met you.”

Seamus snorts and drains his cup. There’s a courteous murmur of appreciation and returned sentiment in Lukas’s direction before everyone obliges the toast. Lukas stares at Petra until she too takes a shallow mouthful of the stuff. He laughs when her face contorts, nodding in approval, and then claps his hands.

“And because we are friends,” he says, mischief behind his glassy eyes, “I will see that you are well taken care of when I bleed you dry. Now,” he slaps the table, “let’s play!”

Petra clasps her hands firmly together. Even though it _feels_ like she’s swallowed fire, unleashing the flame burning within her would ultimately serve no one. She has to show she can handle aggravating moments like these with diplomacy, especially in front of so many discerning eyes. So, even though the river spirit has granted her very little tonight, asking for patience is about all she can still do.

Under everyone’s enquiring gaze, she manages to force a smile and say, “It _also_ seems my cousin has impatience to start the game.”

Lukas laughs and, a little unsteadily, deals out five cards to each of them. Dorothea informs her of the rules and, when she realizes Petra doesn’t have anything to bet with, offers a few of her own coins. Petra politely refuses, demanding Lukas part with some of his. They argue for a moment, but eventually he concedes with, “If only to get you to stop naggin’ me.”

Unfortunately it turns out that Petra is not very good at poker. Dorothea tells her it’s because she’s too honest: everyone knows what type of cards she has because it’s “written” on her face. She tries to school her features for the third round, but since she still hasn’t fully grasped what constitutes as a winning hand, she loses. Her only solace is Caspar is also struggling with the game’s mechanics; it leads to some very colorful exchanges among the table. When she bets everything she has on nothing cards, Lukas roars with laughter. He tosses her a few pity coins so she can play another round. Ferdinand offers to sponsor her sixth.

The only upside of each humiliating loss is that everyone is starting to look a little groggier. Marina is sprawled on the chaise with her head in Vera’s lap, legs slung over a dozing Nadya. Vlad is still standing guard over Lukas by the wall, but his head bobs up and down with the effort to remain awake. Even Lukas and Caspar’s outbursts have cooled to mere seated taunts.

By the ninth turn Bernadetta’s head has sunk into the crook of her elbow. Her eyes are unfocused and barely open. Ferdinand himself can’t keep back a yawn.

“What time is it?”

“Late,” a callous voice interjects from across the room.

Petra’s eyes flash to Felix, mussed like he’d been sleeping. His dark hair is slightly wet and unbound; his white tunic untucked and wrinkled. He crosses to Annette, going down on a knee to gently shake her awake.

“Oh Felix,” Dorothea simpers, rearranging her cards, “It’s a party, remember? Why don’t you let the poor girl sleep and join us for a hand?”

“It stopped being a party hours ago,” he retorts over his shoulder. “And unlike you, some of us actually have things to do in the morning.”

Dorothea rolls her eyes.

“I dare say more than several of us have important matters to attend to in the morning,” Ferdinand says. “A friendly game or two won’t hurt that.”

“It really _is_ being late,” Petra insists. She folds her cards, hoping this and Felix’s arrival might signal the end of the night. “Perhaps this is being a good time to stop?”

As if on cue there’s a distant chiming of bells. When they stop at two, Ferdinand blinks, baffled.

“Goddess, is it really _that_ late?”

Felix makes a derisive snort before beginning a murmured and slightly whiney conversation with a waking Annette. She swats at his hand, rolling over so her back is to him, but eventually he manages to coax her into a sitting position. Petra hears something that vaguely sounds like her saying “carry me” and there’s a bit more disgruntled mumbling. Then, with an exasperated sigh, Felix exits, Annette draped over his back like a slumbering child.

“So… They’re totally banging, right?” Caspar says after a moment, eying where the two had departed. “Like, he’s _whipped_.”

“ _Caspar_ ,” Dorothea chides.

“What? He just carried her out of here piggyback style at like, two o’clock in the morning. They’re obviously having sex.”

“I don’t think Annette’s having sex with _anyone_ in her condition,” Linhardt yawns. “She’s practically unconscious.”

“Lin. Really?”

“What? She _is_.”

Lorenz chuckles. “It would seem the duke has a type.”

“Tiny and cute,” Dorothea mutters into her glass. “Explains _so_ much.”

Rowan stares at the door with a knitted brow, an unspoken thought in the purse of his lips. Petra has a feeling he’s wondering the same thing she had earlier: which man Annette’s affections lie with. Petra thinks she may have gotten a definitive answer, but Rowan looks like he doesn’t know what to make of the scene they just witnessed.

“Well, ‘cute’ is a relative term,” Lorenz quips with a conniving smile, “if we take the _rumors_ into account, in any case.”

“Rumors?” Rowan raises a brow, setting his cards down. “I’m not familiar.”

“Nor should you be,” Dorothea sniffs. “Half of what comes out of the rumor mill is useless drivel dreamed up by nobles with too much time on their hands.” She sets her cards down, “Why they feel the need to further inflate their sense of superiority is beyond me.”

“Oh come now,” Lorenz snorts, “As if _you’ve_ never partaken in idle gossip, Dorothea. In fact, I’m quite sure _you’re_ the source of said rumor.”

Dorothea pinks, lips thinning.

“I deny it.”

“And yet you _know_ what I’m talking about.”

“Gossip is funny thing,” Dorothea says pointedly, “It travels just as fast whether or not there is any wind in its sails. Honestly Lorenz, a noble such as yourself should be _ashamed_ of putting stock in such things.” Her smile is poisonous, “ _Especially_ if we consider some of the tales I’ve heard about _you_.”

The color drains from Lorenz’s face.

“W-what are they saying?”

Dorothea gives him a minute shrug, flipping her long chestnut hair over her shoulder. “Oh, I don’t know. I try not to believe _everything_ I hear.”

Lorenz makes a wordless splutter before pursing his lips.

“Aw, don’t worry, Lorenz,” Caspar puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder, “it’s probably nothing we didn’t _already_ know about you.”

Lorenz jerks away from the man with a glare. Caspar just laughs.

“Oh c’mon, _relax_ ,” he throws his arm around Lorenz’s shoulders, reeling him in close, “I was kidding! Like Dorothea said: rumors are stupid. You shouldn’t let ‘em get to you. I mean, I’ve been the butt of a lot of them and look at all the fucks I give.”

“ _I’ll_ say,” Linhardt smiles impishly from behind his book.

“ _Lin_!”

“What?”

Ferdinand coughs. “I-in any case, I do think it has gotten to be quite late. It might be best if we adjourned for the evening.”

“I agree,” Petra says. “There are important meetings happening tomorrow.” She can’t help casting meaningful glances at Ferdinand (who reddens) and Seamus (who ignores her). “Sleep would be best.”

Lukas blinks slowly at her before blearily taking in the rest of the table. A lazy smile tugs at the corners of his lips and he raises the nearly empty bottle of rum beside him. “ _’rink_.”

“ _No_ ,” Petra chides, rising to snatch the bottle away from him. “You’ve had your fun. It’s time for bed.”

He slurs something incomprehensible before pushing himself back from the table. The motion tips his chair instead of moving it and Lukas tumbles backward with a large crash. It startles most of the table to their feet, shouts of concern and surprise echoing around the room. Vlad rushes to the aid of the fallen prince, as does Marina, and the three set to the task of righting him.

“ _Fool_ ,” Petra scolds, slinging one of his beefy arms over her shoulder. She has to bite her tongue to keep from lashing out at him further. He laughs, a goofy and dazed look settling over his face as she and Vlad lift him to his feet. Marina collects his shawl from underneath the fallen chair and leaves the task of gathering the rest of their belongings to Vera and Nadya.

“It is being the time for bed,” Petra announces to the rest of the room with authority. Her body shakes with tightly controlled fury. “Please be excusing.”

There’s an uneasy collection of goodnights’ as she forcefully ushers her family out of the room. Lukas has the presence of mind to slur ‘bye’ over his shoulder to the remaining partyers; it’s almost infantile in its action. 

The Brigidi retinue is quiet as they make their way through the nearly silent castle, perhaps sensing their future ruler’s foul mood. Even Lukas’s drunken babbling loses steam as they ascend the stairs to their quarters. He grows heavier the drowsier he gets. When they finally reach his chambers, Vlad pushes the door open and the two of them drag the drunk prince inside. Reaching the bed, Petra throws her cousin’s arm off and pushes him onto the mattress. He makes a mild noise of protest, looking up at her groggily as he rolls over onto his back.

“Leave us,” Petra hisses to the room, eyes fixed upon Lukas. She sees Vlad nod from her periphery with a standard salute. He presumably leads Nadya and Vera out of the room as there’s the pattering of feet and creaking of the door. She can sense Marina’s lingering presence, however. _Good_. She would do well to hear what she has to say too.

“Marina.”

Her cousin appears beside her, head bowed meekly. She clutches Lukas’s blue shawl to her chest like a child does a blanket. Lukas’s head lifts slightly at the woman’s approach.

“Yes?”

“I will not tolerate another night like this while we are here,” Petra states, eyes veering from one cousin to the other. “Understood?”

Lukas’s head flops back onto the mattress with a groan, but Marina gives a curt nod, lips thin.

“We are not home,” Petra continues, undeterred by Lukas’s childish grumbling. “We are representing Brigid— the best and worst we have to offer. Fódlan _already_ doesn’t take us seriously. They think we’re powerless. We must show them that we are not. We must show them that we are _equals_. Behavior like this,” she kicks Lukas in the shins, rousing him from dozing off, “tells them that we are _not_ — it makes us look like _fools_. People they must continue to rule over because we simply cannot do it ourselves.”

“ _Spirits_ ,” Lukas swears, rubbing his face, “you sound like Kilí.”

“It was just a _party_ ,” Marina retorts. “If anything it _proves_ that we’re not so different from—”

“We must be _better_ ,” Peta snaps. “Do you want us to be free or not?”

There isn’t an immediate response to that; just a petulant silence that stretches on too long. Petra takes a deep breath: in through the nose and out through the mouth, allowing some of the flame to leave her with it.

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t have fun,” she says, eyes darting between the two, “but that we must conduct ourselves in a manner befitting of royalty. Until we have gotten our independence we are not only guests here, but at home too.”

There is a pregnant pause before Lukas rolls over to climb into the bed proper, huffing, “Right, ‘cause _you_ know what it’s like back home.”

“ _Lukas_ ,” Marina warns, turning wide eyes on Petra. She looks as surprised as Petra feels by the comment, never mind the flippancy in which it was uttered. It hurts, but Petra does her best to remain expressionless. Her brave act hardly matters: Lukas has turned his back to them.

“He’s drunk, Pettie,” Marina says, putting a timid hand on her arm. Lukas snorts, causing her to bristle. “And _clearly_ a child. Why don’t we let him sleep like the infant he is?”

Petra knows she _should_ let it go. She’d be lying to herself if she hadn’t expected some form of dissent from her family. In many ways Lukas is _right_ : she _doesn’t_ know what it’s like in Brigid. Maybe that’s why it hurts so much to hear him say it.

“All I’ve wanted for the last eleven years is to go home,” Petra says, ignoring her better judgement and Marina’s attempt at peacekeeping. “To be among my people, _my family_. But you’re right: I _don’t_ know what it’s like back home. I’ve been _here_ , watching, learning, trying to figure out how to make Brigid _stronger_. I know what Fódlan thinks about us and how they’ve used us— _and_ I know how we can use _them_ in turn.”

She can tell she has Marina’s full attention, but Lukas remains unmoved. If anything his breath has evened out into what Petra suspects is actually feigned sleep. _Fine_. She can take a hint.

“I will prove to you that I’ve learned more than just their language,” she declares hotly, heading for the door. “ _You_ must prove to me that you’re more than a fool.”

“One of us is going to be disappointed,” is his muffled response.

The door slams shut behind her.

Vlad is sitting on his haunches just outside it, but he springs to attention as she steps around him.

“Make sure he’s awake for the damn meeting,” she barks over her shoulder. “Or may the Flame have mercy.”

Once she’s back in the safety of her room, Petra collapses against the door, banging the back of her head against it. Every emotion she’d repressed over the course of the evening comes pouring out in a great heaving, soundless sob. Tears of frustration spill down her face and she swipes angrily at them, resentful of their presence. Snippets of Lukas’s idiotic behavior pop into her mind unbidden, creating what feels like a never-ending cycle of hurt and anger. What had happened to the sweet, shy boy she’d known? Was she just as much of a stranger to him as he was to her now?

She takes in a shuddery breath, rising from her slid position to dry her face on a sleeve of her tunic. After undressing for bed for the second time that night, she sinks wearily down onto the mattress. The meeting is now mere _hours_ away. Is there even a point in going back to bed? What if she sleeps in too late and misses it? Despite her exhaustion, her mind races. It’s impossible to relax with fears like this interrupting any attempt she makes at peace.

As she stares into the nothingness above, her anxiety begins to taper off into petty resentments. Why does it seem like she’s the _only one_ who cares about this meeting? Ferdinand and Seamus she can forgive because it isn’t _their_ country’s independence on the table. But Marina, Lukas, the attendants? How can _they_ not take this as seriously as she is? It’s their freedom at stake, too! Is it because _they_ won’t be leading the discussions? Did that mean _everything_ had to fall to her and Grandfather?

And if they all believe she’s been gone too long to do what’s best for Brigid, _why_?

Thoughts like these eat at her until she falls into a fitful rest, plagued by nightmares. When she opens her eyes to the grey morning light she feels sick. She can’t recall more than a few pieces of the dream she’d been having, but it’s enough to unnerve her: smoke and familiar, maniacal laughter; the shock of silver hair and shouting; the twang of a bow being drawn. Shivering, she sits up and tries to extract herself from it completely. It was starting to feel more like an actual memory than a terrible dream.

She presses her feet against the cold, stone floor, intentionally shocking her senses to the present moment. Dream or not, it wasn’t happening now and therefore she has more important things to do than to continue dwelling on it. She stumbles over to the washroom basin and splashes her face. Her eyes feel puffy and heavy from lack of sleep and the icy water is nothing if not bracing. Even after all these years she still hates the cold. She calls for a hot bath and a strong pot of Four-Spice tea to get herself going. While she waits for their arrival, she tries to decide on an outfit for the meeting. Here she wishes she had someone to confer with. It’s far too early to seek out Dorothea and she wouldn’t dare ask Marina for help after how things ended last night.

A pot of tea and a hot bath later, Petra is beginning to feel like a person. She braids her wet hair and hems and haws over her the articles in her wardrobe, wishing she could simply wear her standard warrior’s garb instead. Eventually she slips into a long, silk skirt with intricate gold stitching of rising phoenixes, hoping its color and motif will invoke the flame spirit’s courage within her. She fishes out a complimentary backless top from the pile to pair it with: she wants the tattoos and her back and arm on full display today.

By the time she’s finished her makeup and redone her hair, the sun is high enough in the sky to warrant leaving her room. Consulting the mirror, she adjusts the way her long shawl drapes over her shoulder and tucks at her waist. It offers her little warmth— as evidenced by the gooseflesh spreading across her bare midriff and arms— but she can’t deny how beautiful she feels. The shawl is a sheer and shimmering gold sewn with tiny crystals in the shape of feathers. Coupled with the rest of her ensemble it makes for a powerful statement. Is it too much though? The fashion trends of Brigid differ so greatly from those of Fódlan that even though her outfit is pretty standard there, she can’t help feeling a bit like an imposter. Even if she didn’t, such extravagant attire isn’t really her style anyway: she’d take leggings and the ease of mobility any day over pageantry.

Self-conscious feelings aside, she _looks_ the part of a powerful and confident ruler. Fastening a heavy gold chain around her throat, she pitches a smile at her reflection. It hangs uncertainly on her lips. She sighs. It’ll have to do.

The halls are quiet when she finally makes her exit. It isn’t until she’s down the large, spiraling staircase and into the grand foyer that the castle begins to bustle with life. It’s mostly just servants heading to or from noble quarters, trays of tea or buckets of hot water in their arms, but the closer she draws to the dining hall the more gentry she starts to see. Most of them are older, stuffy men and women of the Empire that she recognizes from her time at the Gerth estate; others are younger, bleary eyed upstarts from the Kingdom and former Alliance, still recovering from a night of debauchery. It would seem today’s meetings with the new king have already begun.

Since it’s still early there’s no seating protocol to follow and fewer tables set. Petra settles in at the sparser end of one, spooning a small portion of sauteed pheasant and eggs onto a plate despite her lack of appetite. Already jittery from the tea earlier, she forgoes another cup in favor of fresh squeezed juice. While orange has never been a sufficient replicant of the guava juice of her youth, its tangy sweetness usually satisfies. She barely tastes it this morning, too busy mulling over the possible propositions or rebuttals she might soon make. She wishes Grandfather were here to confer with. Neither her family nor the attendants have made an appearance yet and while that’s not entirely surprising, it’s a little bothersome. She feels like she’s facing the day down alone.

When the bells chime her stomach knots. Only an hour to go. She manages to choke down another bite of pheasant, but then has to push the half-finished plate aside. Should she just head to the council rooms now?

“That bad, huh?”

Petra nearly spills her glass of juice at the voice. She looks up to see Ashe smiling crookedly at her, a tray of sweet buns and tea in his hands. He looks like he’d gotten dressed in the dark: his hair has been haphazardly smoothed down and the buttons on his shirt are mismatched underneath his jacket. For someone with such a sense of propriety around nobility, it’s an odd yet endearing sight.

“Ashe,” she breathes, heart fluttering. “You have given me a startle.”

“Sorry,” he says with a breathy chuckle. He shifts his weight and it jostles the contents on the tray somewhat. Petra notices there’s not one, but _two_ cups on with a sinking heart. “Did you also have a little too much last night?”

Petra belatedly registers his question, too preoccupied by the second cup’s implication. It couldn’t possibly be for Annette, could it? “N-no. I am having discussions with Dimitri today, so….”

“O-oh, sorry, I just thought—” he flushes, “never mind. I suppose you _are_ dressed rather beautifully to just, um,” he changes course abruptly, face reddening further, “S-so you’re meeting with His High— His Majesty today? About Brigid?”

Petra nods, the fluttering in her stomach turning to nausea. “I am… nervous.”

She feels shame at the admission, yet oddly at ease telling him. Ashe has always been easy to talk to. During their time at the academy he once told her they were _both_ strangers to the worlds they’d been thrust into; he’d never expected to be the son of a nobleman and she’d never meant to leave her homeland. It made her feel less alone knowing there was someone else doing their best to navigate a new, strange life. Having someone who understood her trials and tribulations had been invaluable at the academy; now it’d become vital.

Ashe shakes his head, a small smile dimpling his cheeks. “Don’t be. I’m sure everything will go well.”

Her lips barely quirk up, “I am hoping so.”

The words hang between them awkwardly and Ashe shifts his weight, mouth parting to say something. Guessing he’s about to announce his departure, Petra blurts, “H-have you been giving thought about Brigid?”

This is clearly the wrong thing to say. Ashe stiffens, his parted mouth contorting into a slight grimace. Petra’s gut churns at the sight, wishing she could take the words back.

“I-I have, but…. Maybe we could discuss this later? When it’s not so early?”

Petra’s hands twist in her lap, hidden under the table and she adverts her eyes. She nods, biting her lip. “Y-yes. Apologies.”

“No need to apologize,” Ashe says, stepping back. “It’s understandable you want an answer, I just… I need more time to think about it.” When she peeks up he smiles reassuringly and adds, “When my head _doesn’t_ feel like it’s full of bees.”

“I-I have understanding.” Petra says with a forced smile. Her chest seizes when he takes another step back, his intent to leave clear. “I-I am knowing it is being a difficult decision, just… Please be considering it.”

“I will,” he assures. “I am!” he adds with more cheer, turning. “We’ll talk soon, I promise.”

Petra nods and he leaves, nearly bumping into an older gentleman as he does. The tea on his tray sloshes around precariously and a sweet bun tumbles onto the floor in a powdery heap, dusting the hems of his pants white. She can’t help the giggle that escapes her at his flustered apology, but her chest feels heavy watching him go. There’s no sense in worrying about his answer now (even if it seems more and more likely to be unfavorable). She has to take things one at a time.

After a few deep breaths she stands and exits through the grand archway, hoping Grandfather will have started to make his way to the meeting room too. As the council chambers are on the other side of the castle, her mind has time to wander. She hopes Marina and Lukas are awake, never mind ready, but she has her doubts. While their absence _would_ infuriate her, it’s actually the least of her worries. She’s more concerned about how Ferdinand will treat her now that he’s on the other side of the negotiation table. While he _seems_ content with Fódlan’s unification, Aegir has probably lost a great deal of power. Perhaps he’ll take the duke’s viewpoint on Brigid’s vassalage and end up voting _against_ their independence.

She should feel much more confident about today’s outcome than she does. Dimitri had given her his word that Brigid would have its sovereignty returned to them, after all. Seeing as those had been the terms agreed upon when she’d offered her country’s assistance, it didn’t seem unreasonable that he’d grant her wish. While she doesn’t pretend to know the man very well, he’s proven himself to be not only honorable, but trustworthy. Why shouldn’t she believe today’s meeting is just a formality?

She passes by the throne room, large and looming, and into the curved antechamber that houses the various council rooms. It is a surprisingly bright and serene setting. A small fountain protrudes from the stone wall, shooting thin streams of water up to a miniature hanging garden of white and yellow flowers. They’re tangled in a mess of sprawling, dewy green leaves that help filter in the harsh sunlight from the domed, glass ceiling overhead. Grandfather is already here, inspecting the foliage with keen eyes, hands clasped behind his back. He seems untroubled. Walking around the lip of the fountain, he reaches up to inspect a flower or leaf every now and then. Petra wonders if they’re foreign to Brigid; she’s grown so accustomed to seeing them bloom year after year she no longer remembers.

“Good morning,” she ventures, stepping into the space proper. An older attendant who she has yet to meet salutes her as she enters. Petra acknowledges them with a nod and makes her way toward the fountain.

Grandfather releases the bloom in his hand to acknowledge her. Somewhere in his whitening beard she thinks she sees a hint of a smile. Coming to stand next to him she bows her head and clasps her hands in front of her.

“I see Lukas and Marina are not with you.”

“No,” Petra affirms, “I rose early. I’m sure they’ll be here soon though.”

He grunts. “Unlikely if I know my grandson.” 

Petra isn’t sure how to respond to that so doesn’t. Evasively she says, “There’s still time before the meeting. I’m only so early because I wanted to discuss some news I was given yesterday.”

He raises a bushy brow, cupping a yellow bloom. “News?”

“Ferdinand von Aegir has reported there were Brigidi ships spotted in Aegir waters recently.”

“And what of it?”

“There haven’t been any docking requests by us in the last three months to make port there.”

Grandfather looks pensive, but untroubled by that. He continues to inspect the yellow flower, turning it this way and that before releasing it. He looks at her expectantly and she feels herself pink.

“Aegir is close to Bergliez,” she says meaningfully, lowering her voice. “Something has happened there. The reports of _what_ are currently vague, but we know that the harbormaster is missing and that the lighthouse has been burned to the ground.”

Grandfather strokes his beard, frowning, before making a dismissive motion with his hand. “Damages incurred during the war, I’m sure.”

“So recently?” Petra asks. “He told me our ships were sighted within the last few weeks. The only flag they have raised is Brigid’s and they’re _galleys_. It seems unlikely they’re just merchants waylaid by storm.”

“Has he given you proof that they’re not?”

Petra shakes her head.

“Then there’s nothing to worry about.” Grandfather shifts to walk around the lip of the fountain and Petra can’t help feeling aghast at such a reaction.

“Don’t you think this will paint us in a bad light?”

“This is merely a scare tactic to keep you docile, my child,” Grandfather sighs, stopping on the other side of the fountain to admire the hanging garden. “Dagda, Adrestia, Faerghus— they’re all the same. Whatever atrocity war brings them, they will blame us for. In times of peace it does them little good to blame each other: they’ll wait till they’ve licked their wounds and are strong enough to fight again. But in their eyes we will always be the savages that must be brought to heel. They do not wish to see us strong. They would prefer us weak, subservient— _reliant_. We may be a small country, but our resources are too great a gift for them to lose. They want us to feel the same way about them; to think that we cannot live without their protection.”

“But we can,” Petra says after a moment, voice quiet but resolute.

Grandfather nods, eyes meeting hers. “We can.”

Despite the weariness in which he spoke, Petra can sense the Flame burning bright within him. It’s sewn in the pattern of his long coat, glints like the tiny fire opals embedded in the fabric: a phoenix being reborn. Brigid rising from the ashes.

Her fears assuage as her heart soars with Brigid pride. Duke Gerth may have thought her grandfather beaten, but he still stands tall; proud. Dressed in a traditionally styled suit of white and gold, he looks majestic; regal. _He_ is a king, but together they will show them what it means to be a Brigidi _warrior_.

“Good morning, Grandfather!”

Color washes across the grey, stone walls in the form of twinkling lights when Marina enters the atrium. Her outfit is so dazzling it’s nearly blinding: jewels cover her from wrist to neck, sewn into what must be a sheer blouse. Symmetrical cuts at her sides expose soft flesh, but are bordered by heavier, gaudier gemstones. The rich, magenta shawl draped and pinned artfully over one shoulder wraps snuggly around her waist, tucking into itself to become a long, pleated skirt. A matching, gauzy underskirt peeks through where there’s a gap in drapery. It’s the only thing aside from her hair that flows freely.

Petra hears Grandfather take in a breath and watches the corners of his mouth turn down. While her cousin’s beauty cannot be denied, the ostentatious livery is sure to prove distracting. It is not a party, after all. Vera and Vlad look positively drab in comparison. They slink into the room and disappear to their posts like wallflowers.

“Petra,” Marina greets, coming to stand next to her. Her tone is cordial, if a little cool. Petra dips her head in response and tries not to tense.

“I’m glad to see you could finally be bothered to join us.” 

Marina winces slightly at their grandfather’s tone but recovers quickly with an airy smile. “Now we are only missing one. Where,” he starts wearily, tracing his steps back over to them, “is Lukas?”

Marina’s smile strains. “I-I had hoped he’d have found his way here by now.”

“Indeed.”

From his position by the wall, Vlad clears his throat. “The Prince, Your Majesty, is still… in bed.”

Grandfather’s head snaps in Vlad’s direction, his dark eyes steely.

“Oh?”

He takes a step toward the man like a cobra readying to strike.

“I, uh,” Vlad swallows, his spine so straight it’s liable to crack from the strain, “I-I lack the authority to issue an order to a member of the royal family, Your Majesty, so I—”

“Then you go back to whatever rock my grandson has crawled under to _bemoan_ his latest escapades and _tell him_ ,” his voice rises sharply, “that _his king_ demands his presence. _Now_.”

“O-of course, sire!” Vlad bows so deeply his braid dusts the floor, “Right away!”

The man nearly trips over himself in his haste to depart. It is the least composed Petra’s yet to see him. Marina giggles, but a harsh look from Grandfather silences it. She coughs and redirects her sight to the flowers hanging above them with new, feigned interest. He brushes past her to inspect the other side of the fountain with a growl, as if daring her to test his patience further.

A tense silence falls over the atrium. Petra debates taking a seat on one of the benches by the council room door to keep from pacing. She’s started feeling nervous again and doesn’t want to draw attention to that fact; Lukas’s absence has put her grandfather on edge as it is. When Marina gently squeezes her hand, she starts with a sharp glance in the woman’s direction. Her cousin just smiles uncertainly, thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of Petra’s hand. An attempt at reassurance, maybe? But for which one of them?

At the sounding of bells Marina lets go of her hand and Petra’s stomach lurches. The time has finally come.

When the council room doors open, several former Adrestian nobles spill out, muttering darkly amongst themselves before disappearing into the hall. Petra recognizes a few of them but not by name or title; they’re just familiar faces she’d seen wandering the halls of the Gerth Estate when she was younger. It’s actually been shocking to see how many Adrestian nobles survived the war given how bloody it’d been. Had _anyone_ remained loyal to Edelgard in the end?

Once the crowd has dispersed completely, Dedue Molinaro steps out from behind the door and addresses them with a bow.

“Your Majesty. Your Highnesses. The king will see you now.”

Grandfather strides in the direction of the room with confidence and poise, pride evident in the swell of his barrel chest. There’s only a hint of the cold fury previously displayed in the backwards glance he shoots over his shoulder. Marina makes a small curtsy that Petra clumsily copies before following. She nods at Dedue as she passes through the archway and he returns the gesture with a guarded one of his own. Petra knows better than to be hurt by such aloofness; the man has only ever been loyal to Dimitri. If Brigid seceding from Fódlan isn’t in his king’s best interests than it isn’t in his either.

Or maybe that’s not it at all. Maybe he just knows all too well what happens to a country that dares to defy Faerghus.

Suppressing a shiver, she takes note of the space she steps into. The room is large, but narrow, and outfitted in Blaiddyd blue. A stained-glass mural of the house’s sigil is set in the stone wall at the end of the room, casting pale light on the dust particles floating in the air. At the heart of the space is a long, thoughtfully carved table surrounded by thick cushioned chairs and evaluating eyes. At its head is Dimitri. The Blaiddyd crest etched into the glass looms over him like a halo— or a threat. Petra slows as not to trip in response to the sudden stutter of her heart. The king’s one-eyed stare is more intimidating than it is welcoming.

It occurs to her that most of what she knows about Dimitri is based on stories she’s only heard. Her actual interactions with him during the war had been rather limited, especially while he’d been the “Tempest King.” The few instances she _had_ spoken with him outside of the war council were the rare times they’d shared the training grounds. He helped her excel with a lance and she’d attempted to instruct him how to better use a bow. She vividly recalls how delicate the instrument had looked in his strong hands— and how easily it had splintered when he became frustrated. It had surprised him almost as much as it had her; he had given her a sheepish look after, sinking into himself with some self-deprecating remark, and she had laughed. The sight of such a wild animal of a man suddenly acting so demure was disarming. She’d helped him tape and restring the bow before selecting something sturdier to study.

The memory is completely at odds with the picture of him now. There’s something frightening about him despite his regal composure. His blonde mane has been pulled back to reveal his lone, blue eye and his gaze is piercing when it lands on her. Petra has to pinch herself to keep from flinching. He may look more man than beast in white and blue silk, but even without the grey-black armor of the war he’s still massive; still just as deadly as the man who had sworn her people would have their freedom if they helped him enact his vengeance first. She’d been scared standing in a council room then too. At least this time there are witnesses other than Dimitri’s ghosts.

The professor sits to Dimitri’s right, expression impassive as ever yet strangely comforting. Seteth is seated next to her followed by Duke Gerth, Constance von Nuvelle, and Ferdinand. Constance’s attendance comes as a surprise. Petra hadn’t been told _she’d_ be here. Did she know something about the ships spotted in Aegir? Considering the woman looks as prim and smug as a peacock, Petra’s certain her presence doesn’t bode well for them.

The other side of the table is vacant except for Seamus. He sits across from his father and is probably meant to act as a translator for her cousins. Considering how miserable he looks (and how poorly a job he’d done last night) she’s almost insulted by the gesture. At least she wouldn’t have to sit next to him.

“Your Majesty,” Dedue’s baritone hums over the snap of the doors shutting, “presenting King Varick of Brigid and Princesses Petra and Marina.”

There is a noisy scuffle of chairs as the table’s occupants rise to pay homage to the Brigidi crown. Dimitri’s bare fingertips press into the tabletop when he rises, as if the weight of the crest shimmering above him is too much to bear. He inclines his head to Grandfather, wisps of blonde hair slipping over his eyes as he does. Grandfather acknowledges the show of deference with a shallow nod over a fist in palm. Petra and Marina mimic the action a few steps behind him, keeping their heads bent until Dimitri straightens and gestures to the seats on his left. Grandfather approaches steadily, hands clasped behind his back. Once he’s at the man’s side, he nods and the two of them sit. The rest of the table waits until Petra and Marina have sat before takings their seats again.

It is an exhausting, unnatural display of posturing. Petra hates every second of it.

“Welcome,” Dimitri greets warmly, the tone at odds with Petra’s former trepidation. “I hope you have found your stay comfortable thus far?”

“Very,” Grandfather nods, a smile peeking out from his beard. His accent is thick, but the language seems to come naturally enough. “Faerghus is being… quite hospitable despite its chill.”

Dimitri chuckles. “I’m afraid it doesn’t get much warmer this far north.”

“Not everyone can be living in a paradise,” Grandfather grins. “It is why it pays to be hearty.”

A second, uncertain chuckle escapes Dimitri. “I suppose it does.” He clears his throat, “Forgive me, but I had thought, ah, Prince Lukas would _also_ be in attendance today.”

Grandfather’s face darkens. He covers it with an incline of his head. “Excuse my grandson his insolence. He _will_ be punished.”

“O-oh, no,” Dimitri sputters, “I didn’t mean—”

“His presence is not required to be discussing important matters,” Grandfather assures, a cold edge to his voice. “Be assured he is not mine heir.”

A nervous pant, “R-right.”

Dimitri swallows, seemingly unsure how to proceed. His eye drifts toward Byleth uncertainly. She coughs, drawing focus.

“Are you sure you’d like for us to continue without the prince present?”

“Yes,” Grandfather says with a wave of his hand. “It is fine.”

“Very well,” Dimitri says, smoothly reasserting his control over the conversation, “Then let us begin. The Crown will now rule on the Kingdom of Brigid’s independence.”

As Seteth picks up a quill to dip in the inkwell next to him, the council room door burst open, startling everyone. Petra tenses as Lukas enters, disheveled and bleary eyed, followed by an exasperated Vlad. Dedue appears from the shadows, two additional guards on his heels to fight back the would-be intruders, but Petra quickly bids them off.

“It is my cousin!” she shouts, standing. “Prince Lukas!”

Vlad has thrown himself into a defensive stance between her cousin and Dedue, eyes steely despite the superior height advantage the other two men have on him. Lukas has raised his hands placatingly, a weak smile pulling tiredly at the corners of his mouth. Dimitri waves Dedue and the other guards off and Vlad lowers his defensive stance. He bows lowly to both him and Grandfather before taking post by the door with a parting side-eyed look at Lukas.

Petra hesitates to sit, unsure whether she should wait till Lukas has joined them at the table or not. When Marina makes the decision for her by pulling her arm, she can’t help glaring at the woman, indignant heat flushing her face as she’s forced to her chair. Marina gives a faint shake of her head, casting a meaningful look at their grandfather. Petra tenses when the man rises from his seat. The fire burning in his eyes confirms Marina’s decision as the smart one.

“ _Lukas_.”

Lukas flinches at Grandfather’s low growl and tries to play the jerky motion off with a roll of his shoulders. He nods cordially, if cluelessly, to the table’s occupants before slowly walking to their side of the table. There’s only a shadow of the bravado Petra’s grown accustomed to seeing in her cousin’s stride, but it’s a commendable attempt: she can _feel_ the fear radiating off of him the closer he gets to Grandfather. He falters at the seat next to Seamus, looking like he might sit, but Grandfather’s unwavering stare and continued standing position tells him he may not. Petra tenses when he stops behind her to bow.

The crack of Grandfather’s hand striking her cousin startles her. It reverberates off the walls much like the sharp inhalations from across the table.

“I will deal with you later,” Grandfather growls. “ _Sit_.”

Lukas makes a speedy backwards retreat, back bent and head down. He remains cowed even after he’s sat, right cheek red with shame and pain.

Grandfather straightens his coat and sits.

“As Your Majesty had been saying,” he says into the stunned silence, “Please. Let us begin.”

There is a collective sharing of uncomfortable looks until Dimitri clears his throat.

“Y-yes. Right.” He clears his throat again. “The Crown will now rule on the Kingdom of Brigid’s independence.” He nods at Seteth who re-dips his quill.

“Your Majesty King Varick,” Seteth says with a pointed glance at Grandfather, “If you would state your case?”

A wry smile twists Grandfather’s weathered face. It’s clear the flame spirit still simmers within him; fire flickers behind his dark eyes. “My case?” he repeats. “The war is _over_. All that is remaining is to grant us our sovereignty.”

Petra swallows at the uncomfortable silence that follows. It’s clear that most of the cabinet is still reeling from her grandfather’s violent display just now— herself included. Lukas stares dejectedly at his cupped hands, eyes glassy despite the firm line of his mouth. Her lips can’t help twitching into a wry smile; it would seem some semblance of her crybaby cousin still exists after all. It feels wrong seeing him so sad and pathetic looking though: he should be showcasing how strong and proud a Brigidi warrior is, not a broken visage of a young man.

“Sovereignty?” Duke Gerth finally questions, breaking the quiet. “When all of Fódlan is _finally_ united?” He looks around the table with a raised eyebrow and a snort before his eyes settle on Grandfather. “With all due respect, why would the king grant such a thing after going through so much trouble to unify us?”

“Di— His Majesty has _promised_ us this,” Petra states, nearly tripping over her words to get them out. She shifts in her seat, looking from Dimitri to the duke. “In exchange for Brigidi aid during the war, Brigid would be gaining its independence.”

“Is there a contract stating as much?” Seteth asks, glancing at her with another dip of his quill.

“N-no,” Petra’s cheeks flush. “But His Majesty has been assuring me he would be granting our wish.”

“So there is no contract?” Duke Gerth presses.

“Maybe not a written one,” Ferdinand notes from his end of the table, voice soft yet firm, “but a verbal one seems to have been made.”

“There are _written_ documents between the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus and my own territory dating back to 750 stating that we would remain independent from the kingdom. The world has changed: there is no longer any value to them. Why should a spoken promise hold any more weight?”

“Are you implying that His Majesty’s word has no legal value?” Ferdinand counters.

“Not at all,” Duke Gerth answers smoothly, bowing his head respectfully in Dimitri’s direction. “I only meant to question the legitimacy of said promise. I _do_ have to wonder why His Majesty would grant Brigid sovereignty in light of a war that sought to _unify_ our country though.”

“Brigid is not Fódlan,” Grandfather states tersely. “We are being different countries.”

“Brigid is a _vassal_ state,” Duke Gerth retorts. “It is as much a part of Fódlan as Adrestia and therefore bound by the same laws.”

“Our vassalage continuing is currently under discussion,” Petra says hotly, “Our intent is to be independent once again. Adrestia’s laws will no longer apply.”

“Should His Majesty acknowledge your request.”

Petra bristles and sucks in a breath to argue, but Seteth cuts her off with a look to Dimitri.

“Does the crown recognize Brigid’s plight?”

Silence. Dimitri drums his fingers against the table, expression stoic despite Petra’s intense gaze. “The crown… recognizes Brigid’s plight. I— the crown acknowledges the verbal agreement the princess speaks of.”

“You acknowledge it?” Grandfather’s eyes narrow. “Do you not _honor_ it?”

Petra watches the corners of Dimitri’s mouth dip down with a sinking heart.

“I… intend to honor the request,” he starts hesitantly, refusing to meet Petra’s eyes. “But we should discuss the terms further.”

“ _Terms_?” Petra repeats, nearly choking on the word.

“Ridiculous,” Grandfather mutters in their native tongue, “This is a waste of time.”

“I assure you it is _not_ , Your Majesty,” Duke Gerth says, looking smug for understanding his lapse in language. “If Brigid is ‘independent,’ we need to know _precisely_ what that means.”

Byleth issues Petra a contrite look. “This is true.”

Petra’s heart falls with her teacher’s agreement.

“It is meaning we are being independent of Fódlan,” she insists, trying not to let her confusion or hurt show. “This is being obvious, yes?”

“Of course,” Duke Gerth says. “But you’re missing the finer details. For example, if Brigid is independent does that mean it has the freedom to conduct its own foreign affairs? The freedom to build and maintain its own military? Freedom from Fódlanite taxation?”

“… I am thinking yes.”

“All right. Then is Faerghus expected to protect this ‘independence’ from foreign powers?”

“We would be being allies, so….”

“Right. And how is it supposed to do that without a military base of some kind in Brigid?”

“W-well,” Petra stutters, “there are already being—"

“Furthermore, how soon must Brigid be set free?” Duke Gerth continues, ignoring her poor attempt to answer, “You claim His Majesty said, ‘after the war,’ but how _soon_ after? A day? A moon? A year? A century?”

Petra swallows. She doesn’t know.

“I believe these ‘finer details’ are the very things we’re hoping to address one a time, Duke Gerth,” Byleth says in the onslaught’s pause. “I don’t think any of us know the answers just yet.”

“Nor do I think you have thought through the repercussions of granting Brigid its independence! The Lords and Ladies of Adrestia and Leicester are already chafing under the prospect of Faerghan rule after hundreds of years of separation. Allowing Brigid to go its own way would only embitter them further. There are still minor skirmishes happening on the borders— the last thing His Majesty should want is to see them turn into full-fledged rebellions.”

“I’m sure those will calm in the coming months,” Seteth says. “Barely two moons have passed since the war’s end. There’s often a breakdown in communication near the end of war; it’s likely these poor people aren’t even aware that the fighting is over. And,” he continues when the duke looks like he might argue, “if they are, then these are probably the last gasps of dissent we will see.”

“You’re missing my point,” Duke Gerth hisses, his calm demeanor slipping. “This is the _worst_ possible time to visit the idea of an independent state— especially for a place which was once a vassal to Adrestia! If His Majesty hopes to gain any allies in the Adrestian court, he would do well to dismiss this notion outright.”

“His Majesty doesn’t need _allies_ , he needs subservience,” Byleth says coolly.

“Exactly!” Duke Gerth gasps. “ _Subservience_. From everyone, _including_ Brigid.”

Grandfather’s eyes narrow. “Adrestian lords may be finding an _ally_ in Brigid if His Majesty does not honor his promises.”

Petra’s stomach seizes with the sudden chill in the room.

“W-what my Grandfather is meaning is—"

“P-perhaps Faerghus and Brigid could agree to a more— ah— _formal_ alliance,” Ferdinand sputters to her defense. “A-a counterweight of sorts should there be a threat of Adrestian rebellion.”

“A ‘more formal alliance?’” Seteth questions, quirking an eyebrow. He sets his quill aside and leans back in his chair. “Interesting.”

“We would be bordering both sides of Adrestia,” Petra says slowly, eyes roving from person to person. “It would be giving them pause.”

Seteth stares at her contemplatively, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table, and then shifts his gaze to Dimitri. “Yes…” he murmurs. “It may also solve this issue altogether if it results in the birth of an heir.”

Petra wonders at Seteth’s words, belatedly registering what a ‘formal alliance’ _could_ mean. Her cheeks warm and she casts a slightly mortified glance at Dimitri. The man shifts in his seat uncomfortably, coughing when their eyes awkwardly meet.

“I-I suppose that is, um, an interesting proposition, but I….” He trails off, face reddening. “I… o-of course would consider, um, something of the sort—”

“Your Majesty,” Duke Gerth says exasperatedly, “while an alliance would certainly not be unwelcome, it is something we should consider in a _decade_ or two, not moons! Let Adrestia and Leicester get used to Faerghan rule first. Once they see how much better life is in unity we can revisit the idea of Brigid becoming an independent state. Or a marriage, if that seems more prudent.”

Ferdinand’s mouth forms into a lopsided smile and he looks sheepishly at Petra. “That… may actually be the better course of action.”

Petra stares at him in disbelief; how quickly he sold her and her people’s freedom for _his_ homeland’s convenience. While he has the decency to look somewhat abashed, his resolve is evident in the way he refuses to flinch away from her piercing gaze. She swallows, trying to piece together a counterargument from the jagged edges of her breaking heart.

“This is not being what His Majesty promised me.”

“Maybe not yet,” Byleth says, a softness in her voice and otherworldly eyes, “but it _does_ seem like the cleanest strategy for everyone involved. Brigid _will_ see its independence,” she reassures. “There will just be a delay in when.”

“’The cleanest strategy for everyone?’” a feminine and accented voice scoffs. Petra’s eyes widen, snapping to Marina. “For Fódlan, perhaps,” the woman continues in perfectly natural sounding Fód. “The king promised my cousin freedom in exchange for aid and we delivered. Now that we’re asking for the same courtesy, you wish to postpone? Till when?” she seethes. “Till your king forgets he ever made the promise to begin with?!”

“ _Marina_ ,” Petra hushes, trying very hard to put aside how humiliated she feels. This whole time her cousin could speak Fód— _better_ , somehow, than Petra could herself— and simply pretended she couldn’t! Petra isn’t the only one surprised. Seamus gawks beside Marina, eyes shifting to his father uncertainly. The rest of the table looks askance, caught just as off guard by her cousin’s fluency.

Marina clicks her tongue exasperatedly, but her ruby eyes remain trained on Duke Gerth. 

“Marina is right,” Grandfather says, placing a gruff hand on Petra’s curled fist. “Brigid has been delivering on its promises. It is—” he wavers a for a moment and settles on, “detestable that Fódlan should not be doing the same.” His harsh gaze roams over the other side of the table before stopping on Dimitri. “I had been thinking no one could be being worse than Dariush of Dagda, but now I am beginning to wonder.”

Dimitri holds her grandfather’s gaze admirably, but it’s hard not to notice the tint of red rising from his collar.

“I intend to honor my promise, King Varick,” Dimitri says evenly, “but it _will_ take time and a little of your patience.”

“What policies did Adrestia have in place prior to the war?” Byleth asks. “Perhaps we can start the process of dismantling those while we work toward future independence.”

“Withdrawing your soldiers would be a good place to start,” Marina huffs. “They treat us like captives in our own country.”

“Your Majesty, I think that is ill-advised,” Duke Gerth beseeches, “The withdrawal of troops will put the lives of Fódlan migrants and worshippers of the Goddess at risk. The Brigidi believe in hea— _pagan_ , violent gods. Those who follow the Church of Seiros’ teachings are only able to coexist at this time _because_ there are soldiers present.”

Dimitri considers the duke with a narrowed eye then turns his focus to Marina.

“Is there truth to what he says?”

“ _I_ wouldn’t say our religious practices are violent,” she says in clipped tones, “but I can see how an outsider might misunderstand some of our customs. I’d say it’s your Adrestian _soldiers_ who pose the greater threat to the peace between our people than any of our _pagan_ beliefs.”

Grandfather lets out an amused huff, grunting his agreement.

“I will start by withdrawing _half_ of the troops currently in place,” Dimitri says despite the duke’s sputtering protests. “I presume scheduled visitations were also a thing the former Duke Aegir insisted on?” Grandfather gives a curt nod. “I will halve the amount of those as well. On paper you may still might be part of Fódlan, but functionally you’ll have gained some semblance of autonomy.”

“It is… a start,” Grandfather concedes.

Duke Gerth lets out a frustrated sigh. “Since Your Majesty _insists_ on going against my advice, might I note that Adrestia had _already_ been working toward curating more self-directed rule within Brigid? I believe if we follow the groundwork the Emperor had started—” the duke fumbles at Dimitri’s sudden, icy glare, “i-it will reinforce the connection between the two countries that the Emp— _empire_ had already been fostering.”

“Edelgard may have been misguided,” Byleth says quietly, her words as soft and gentle as the hand she rests on Dimitri’s curled fist, “but it doesn’t mean _all_ of her ideas were. It could be worth hearing what strategies she’d planned to implement and use them as a template for our own.”

There is a brief, tense pause before Dimitri nods tersely and unclenches his fist. Byleth gives him a small smile, withdrawing her hand, and the two turn their attention back to the duke.

“T-he main point I wanted to make,” Duke Gerth stammers, “is if Faerghus releases Brigid on its— _our_ terms, not only does the threat of Dagdan invasion within Brigid decrease exponentially, the risk of Adrestian rebellion does as well. But we must proceed cautiously! If we are too quick to withdraw our troops and allow Brigid to govern however they please, it will just leave them susceptible to Dagdan subjugation once again.”

“Brigid certainly _does_ have a tumultuous history when left to its own devices,” Constance adds, her pink lips in the shape of something closer to a sneer than a smile. “And it keeps the most _interesting_ and dangerous of friends.”

While Petra’s quick to soften the glare she shoots the woman, she’s unable to keep the sharpness out of her voice, “Please be excusing. I do not have understanding what it is you are implying.”

Constance’s lips curl to a smile as sunny as it is poisonous. “Brigid’s empire may have been short lived, but I highly doubt those living on Fódlan’s coast would care to see it return. If Fódlan were to release you now, what guarantees could Brigid give _Fódlan_ against invasion aside from continued vassalage? You’re so easily conquered else swayed by Dagda’s whims! Our soldiers are there for _your_ protection as much as ours. Withdrawing so many at once is a foolhardy idea indeed.”

Petra’s mouth parts in confused indignation, unsure how to begin rebuking the woman’s strange statements. Brigid’s _empire_?

“That’s ludicrous!” Ferdinand states, twisting in his seat to address Constance directly. “Brigid doesn’t _need_ to guarantee Fódlan’s independence. They’re…” he falters, swallowing whatever initial iteration his argument had been with a glance across the table. He settles on, “Brigid is our friend.” Casting a second, apologetic look directed at Petra he continues, “and if I may be frank, even after a war our military might is superior to theirs— especially now that all of Fódlan is a united front. If Brigid were to plan an invasion— with or without Dagda— they would find themselves sorely at a disadvantage.”

“It’s interesting that you should mention such a hypothetical, Ferdinand,” Constance simpers, teeth bared, “considering the reports coming in from Aegir bay. Or have you not been receiving those?”

His eyes widen just slightly, lips pressing into a firm line. His fist loosely curls on the table and he taps it contemplatively. With a heavy sigh, “I have.”

“And what information is within these reports?” Seteth asks, casting the two a pointed look down his long nose. “Does it pertain to the matters currently under discussion?”

Ferdinand grimaces.

“As a matter of fact, it _does_ ,” Constance gloats.

Seteth frowns, scribbling onto his parchment.

“Ridiculous,” Grandfather hisses. “What is the Nuvelle girl even doing here? She holds no title, has no power.”

“ _Grandfather_ ,” Petra warns, eying the stony faces of those not privy to his thoughts.

“I asked the _Lady_ von Nuvelle to be here as a character witness to what Brigid does when their power goes unchecked,” Duke Gerth says coolly. “As I’m sure she’ll tell you, it can be _monstrously_ destructive.”

Grandfather waves his hand dismissively and, as if not too mince words, lapses into Brigidi once again, “As the one who stole my granddaughter away and shackled my youngest son, I wonder who the _real_ monster is here. Rehor is dead and his crime atoned. If the _Lady_ von Nuvelle is dissatisfied with how you presented justice then that is your failing. It will no longer be Brigid’s.”

The table is tense; its occupants confused but guarded. Marina’s hand snakes under the table to take Petra’s and even Lukas has been startled to look up from his lap for the first time since sitting. He glances anxiously at Petra, eyes big and round like a child’s, silently willing her to say _something_. Her mind whirls, trying to put together a peaceable way of diffusing the situation while memories of her father dance murkily behind her eyes. It’s impossible. All she can focus on is Seamus’s terrible translation choices.

“The king—”

“ _His Majesty_ ,” Gerth corrects without looking at his son.

“His Majesty says… says… He says he will fail—” Seamus coughs, red faced, “No, sorry— he will no longer be Brigid. Wait. He will—"

“My Grandfather is saying that what has happened in Nuvelle is being in the past,” Petra finally snaps. Seamus recoils, deflating in his seat and matching the color of his jacket. Petra takes a deep breath and states more calmly, “ _Everything_ that has happened between Brigid and Adrestia is being in the past. We are not wanting to be ruled by Adrestia _or_ Dagda.” Her eyes rest on Constance for a spell before roving up the table. “It is why we are here. To discuss our respective futures.”

Her eyes find Byleth’s and the woman imperceptibly nods, the tiniest of smiles quirking the corners of her lips. The thundering of Petra’s hearts subsides. The professor still has faith in her.

“Yes,” Grandfather agrees after a long moment. “It is as Petra says. Let us put the past to the side and begin again.”

Dimitri nods and looks to Seteth. “Very well... Where were we?”

“Reports from Aegir and their relevance to the topic at hand.”

Petra’s heart sinks. This is not where she’d hoped the conversation would return.

“Your Majesty,” Duke Gerth starts, seizing control of the conversation, “As Lady von Nuvelle says, there _is_ some disturbing news coming out of Aegir. We have received reports that there are at least _three_ Brigidi warships just off the Aegir coast.”

“And you are being certain that they are warships?” Petra presses. “Isn’t it being more likely that they are merchants?”

“If they’re just merchants how do you explain the lighthouse? Or the nearby town? I’m told nothing but soot and ash remain. Isn’t that right, Duke Aegir?”

Ferdinand straightens, interlacing his gloved fingers. His throat bobs as his eyes catch Petra’s before skirting to Dimitri. “I have not heard such tales about the town,” he says, “but I can attest to the lighthouse being burnt to the ground.”

“Casualties of war that you are only now noticing,” Grandfather dismisses.

“And the ships looming in the harbor?” Constance asks.

“The sea is being rough this time of year,” Grandfather retorts, a growl underlining his voice. “We trade with frequency in Morfis despite her violence. I am being certain that they are being merchants, not warships.”

“The Bergliez lighthouse had been fully operational at war’s end,” Duke Gerth counters, ignoring their attempts to rebuke him. “Now it lies in cinders and three Brigidi galleys loiter in Aegir Bay. Given your… _history_ with the Bergliez, I suspect there are more sinister motives at work here.” He looks confidently at Dimitri. “Your Majesty, I believe this to be an act of war.”

“No!” Petra exclaims. “Brigid is not wanting to be at war! We are wanting _peace_.”

“Where’s your proof?” Marina demands. “Were Brigidi warriors found in or around the village? No? Then this is merely a baseless accusation!”

“Your Majesty,” Grandfather turns to Dimitri and bows his head. “I am swearing to you that I have not been ordering an attack since the war’s end. It is as my granddaughters says: we are desiring peace.”

Grandfather’s words hang suspended in the air. Beside her, Petra feels Marina shake in indignant fury. Lukas whispers something to her and there is a brief, terse conversation between them that Petra can’t begin to focus on. Grandfather is still beside her, unreadable, watching Dimitri with guarded eyes. Petra swallows thickly, watching the man’s fingers drum against the table almost hypnotically. His lone blue eye is cold and assessing. It sends a shiver down Petra’s spine as it moves from her to Grandfather.

“I would like very much to believe you, King Varick,” he starts, ton wary, “but three galleys in a foreign port so close to a recently ravaged town isn’t something I can easily overlook.” His piercing gaze shifts to the other side of the table. “Duke Gerth, Duke Aegir. What else can you tell me about the attacks?”

The two men exchange an evaluating look. Ferdinand’s eyes flicker from Petra to Dimitri.

“Nothing,” he states, wetting his lips. “I received the report just yesterday. Unless something drastic has changed in the interim, the ships have neither requested permission to dock nor made unsanctioned port on Aegir shores. The report _did_ include the mention of a small squall just off the coast, and that the air had been thick with ash for two days. I imagine such events would have made traveling by sea quite difficult.”

“Ha!” Constance snorts. “Oh, come now, Ferdinand. It hardly takes a genius to find the correlation between these ships and the burnings in Bergliez. Aside from a predisposition to inherent savagery, their motives are sound: revenge! Ten years ago, Count Carl Bergliez laid waste to their forces and put an end to the Brigidi barbarism by taking the life of their king. Now they think us weakened by war. What better time to try and exact their vengeance? To expand their empire?”

“You are saying impossible things,” Petra declares. The hot, righteous anger boiling in the pit of her stomach is acidic; her tone more so. “We have been doing everything we _can_ be doing to help aid the war of a country that is not being our own! Now you are saying we wish to be having _more_ war? That we must always be doing wrong?”

She cuts herself off, swallowing the bile creeping up her throat. Her nails bite into the palms she’s kept hidden in her lap. She has to calm down, to think how to rationally navigate through this obstacle, but it feels as if the white-hot flames of fire have consumed her.

“We are not wanting more war,” she insists with a slap against the table. “We are wanting to be _free_! We are wanting to be believed!” She turns her scorching glare to Dimitri. “What more must I be doing to prove this to you?”

“You have been too trusting, my child,” Grandfather breathes, placing a hand on her curled fist, drawing her attention to him. His face holds none of the anger in Petra’s chest, only quiet, heartbreaking acceptance. It is the same face he wore eleven years ago watching from the docks as a sobbing child disappeared over the horizon.

It only lights the fire under Petra more. How, with success so clearly in view, can Grandfather be so ready to give in?

Seamus hurriedly echoes him, announcing more confidently than before, “His Majesty suggests that Petra – _Princess_ Petra – has too much trust.” He looks so pleased with himself. Duke Gerth does not share the feeling: he looks at his son like he wants to hit him.

A moment later, Petra realizes why: Dimitri weighs the words, and when he tilts his head her way, his voice is reassuring. He is earnest enough that he forgets to include her title, “Petra. Please believe me when I tell you that I am doing everything in my power to fulfill my end of our bargain. In return, I will believe you and His Majesty when you tell me that whatever has occurred in Aegir territory is an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

It does a little to soothe Petra’s mind— maybe not as much as it might have on another day. Too much else has passed already. Yet when she looks across the table, she sees that Seamus’s face has fallen in some type of realization. Constance’s twists like she’s swallowed a lemon and Duke Gerth’s mouth has become a thin line.

If _they_ are so offput by the king’s words, that can only be good for Petra— and particularly for Brigid. Petra directs a tight smile at the king of Fódlan, nodding in understanding.

Dimitri smiles back. He looks to the rest of the table, folding his hands in front of him. In tones that Petra is sure he learned in Byleth’s classroom, he says, “Let us assume the worst: that what has occurred _is_ a battle between Brigidi and Bergliez forces. Is it possible that the Brigidi ships operating in Aegir may simply not yet have learned of the war’s end?”

“An excellent question, Your Majesty,” Ferdinand says, only fawning a little. Something in Dimitri’s manner seems to have inspired him— his king must have lived up to the Ferdinand von Aegir model of nobility. He turns to Grandfather, animatedly asking, “Your Majesty, what communication methods does Brigid use in wartime?”

Grandfather was not with them in their academy days and therefore has no fond memories of anyone here save for his family. Stone-faced he says, “They are being the same as those Adrestia uses.”

Marina snorts disbelievingly under her breath.

Ferdinand nods, his brow knitting slightly in consideration. He is running the numbers. Petra tries to do the same when Constance suddenly explodes in giddy, gloating laughter. A moment later, Ferdinand’s face falls. He looks at Dimitri, saying, “Then, Your Majesty, it is unlikely that— given the date of the sighting— the Brigidi ships in question were unaware that the war was over.”

Duke Gerth springs on this before it has even fully registered for Petra, “So you’re saying that if an attack _was_ carried out, then it was happening unlawfully.”

Ferdinand’s lips twitch into a frown. “That isn’t quite what I meant, but… yes. I suppose it would have been.”

“But we are not knowing what has happened!” Petra blurts with a petulant slap of her hand on the table. “We are not even knowing for certain that they are being warships or merchant ships!”

“Either King Varick is _lying_ about not ordering an attack,” Duke Gerth says coolly, ignoring her interjection to glare at Grandfather, “or the lines of communication in Brigid are worrisomely— perhaps even conveniently— lacking.”

Petra sees red. She opens her mouth to retort, but bites back her obscenities when Marina puts a firm hand over her curled fist.

“ _Fine_ ,” Marina barks, eyes snapping to the duke. “Let’s assume the ships in Aegir Bay _are_ warships since you so desperately want them to be. It can take _weeks_ in ideal traveling conditions to sail from Brigid to the southeastern coast of Adrestia. If a fleet left Brigid on the last week of the war, and carrier pigeons with news of the war’s end were intercepted or lost at sea, then isn’t it possible those soldiers would only now be finding out about the war’s end? Perhaps it’s even why they’re idling in the bay as we speak.”

“Even if they _are_ being warships,” Petra adds, voice tight with the effort to remain calm and civil, “and we are not knowing that they _are_ , we are also not knowing the… specifics— the details—”

“An attack _did_ occur,” Duke Gerth cuts in. “We know this for a fact.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Petra seethes, “but we are not knowing that the _ships_ are responsible! Perhaps _they_ were the ones being attacked!”

“And the people of Bergliez just happened to burn their own town and lighthouse down?”

“Bergliez was being the kingdom’s enemy until now,” Petra states hotly. Before she can stop herself, she adds, “as were _you_. As was _all_ of Adrestia!”

The duke balks at that, face coloring in angry, red blotches. “How _dare_ you—”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Marina smiles wickedly. “We know that for a _fact_.”

“I serve the kingdom and His Majesty as but a humble, _loyal_ subject—"

“Your Majesty,” Grandfather turns to Dimitri. “I am not sure how well you are knowing this man, but _I_ am knowing him as a man of Adrestia and a… orchestrator of events. It is with strangeness that he is being well-informed about events we are otherwise not having all the information for, no? I am thinking,” he shoots a level look at the Duke, “that he is either saying things without having knowledge of their truth, _or_ he _does_ have knowledge because he is _also_ having responsibility for them.”

“A-absurd! The audacity!” the duke wails. “Such accusations— _Why_ would I randomly construct some kind of conflict with House Bergliez?!”

“Perhaps to paint yourself in a better light,” Marina sneers. “Mere weeks ago you two were allies. Now you sit to the right of the King. Bergliez men do not seem like the forgiving or merciful type. What do you suppose they’d do to a traitor such as yourself?”

“Not _all_ Bergliez men are enemies, Marina,” Petra says, a warning in her tone. She pretends not to notice the way her grandfather stiffens at her side or the way Lukas comes to attention with a furrowed brow, demanding Seamus translate faster. “Bergliez is… should mostly be being our allies now.”

“Precisely!” Duke Gerth agrees. “Petra understands. Orchestrating some type of conflict, as the— the _princess_ suggests, is frankly—”

“The wisdom of a cowardly fool?” Marina supplies, ignoring Petra’s glare, “I know how ruthless Count Bergliez is. What do you think he would do to someone as spineless as you?”

“Not much he _can_ do, rotting in a cell,” Duke Gerth scoffs, “And rightly so!” he adds with a desperate look at Dimitri. “Unlike Carl von Bergliez, I saw His Majesty’s light, the error of my—”

“What you _saw_ was an opportunity to curry favor with the new king while disposing of a problem you could still blame the war for. And who better to take the blame than foreign powers?”

“Vile _witch_!” Duke Gerth yells, spit bubbling at the corners of his mouth. “How— How _dare_ you accuse me of such treasonous deeds! The loss of innocent lives—”

“Surely means nothing to you,” Marina retorts, seemingly unfazed by the hurled insult, “I’ve heard tales of the carnage you helped wrought in Nuvelle. I know—”

“And what exactly do _you_ know about the ‘carnage wrought in Nuvelle?’” Constance suddenly shrieks. “Were _you_ there upon it’s bloody shores? Did _you_ watch as your ‘brave’ warriors set my home ablaze? Watch as people,” she chokes, shrilly gasping, “ _flung_ themselves from the windows to escape the raging inferno within? See them—”

“ _Constance_ ,” Ferdinand breaths, eyes full of pity. He reaches for her, but she jerks away from his touch, sniffling, and swipes at her eyes. With her momentum staled, she appears to have lost the will to continue on.

“If you were there then you _also_ saw the duke perform his _own_ executions. On children, barely old enough to wield a weapon,” Marina says. Though her tone is softer, the steel is still there. “Blood was shed on both sides, Lady. I suffer the memories of that day as well as you.”

“What you heathens did that day was nothing short of _wicked_ ,” the duke hisses.

“As is whatever it is you’re plotting in Bergliez now,” Marina retorts.

“How is it you can call me a ‘cowardly fool’ in one breath and a remorseless executioner in another?”

“I think we are getting off topic,” Byleth says suddenly, shooting a look at Petra. While she agrees hurling insults isn’t doing her family any favors, she’s not entirely sure what more she can do than sit idle. Her own plights have resulted in very little.

“To the contrary,” the duke huffs, loosening his collar. “If anything I’d say the royal family has mostly proved my point for me. Brigid is not ready to be independent.”

“I believe only His Majesty can rule on that,” Seteth states.

“Then unless His Majesty is deaf and blind he will see my counsel is sound.”

The table falls silent under the one-eyed, withering look Dimitri gives the duke. Petra can hear the man gulp. She’s amazed he doesn’t immediately grovel for forgiveness.

“Whether you are fit to continue acting as my Minister of Foreign Affairs is something you and I will have to discuss at length,” Dimitri says coolly after a long, tense moment. “I certainly expected a higher level of decorum and respect from someone whose held the title for as long as you have. However,” he sighs, gaze shifting to Petra then the table at large. “Until we know _exactly_ what happened in Bergliez and how it relates to the ships in Aegir Bay, I cannot in good conscience rule on the independence of Brigid.”

Petra’s heart cracks and sinks. Dimitri continues amidst her cousin’s sputtered protests, but everything sounds slightly muffled, as if she’s under water. Shame overwhelms her. She can’t bear to look at anyone: not her grandfather, silent and still by her side, nor her former teacher turned traitor, no matter how imploring their gaze is.

The conversation continues, but it’s fuzzy. Dimitri makes whatever decrees deemed necessary to properly investigate the Bergliez and Aegir incidents. There are a few exchanges between him, Ferdinand, and a reluctant Duke Gerth that’s followed up with several featuring Byleth and Seteth. Constance remains withdrawn and sullen. The scratches of quills beat in time with the thrum of Petra’s pulse. Finally, Seteth reads from his notes. Then there’s the sound of a gavel and scraping of chairs as the meeting is officially adjourned.

“Petra,” Byleth calls, her soft, imploring tone cutting through the hum as clear as a bell. It is with some difficulty that Petra raises her head to look at the woman seated across from her. The rest of the table has started gathering their things to make a fastidious exit, but Byleth only has eyes for her. “Dimitri means for Brigid to be fully independent; it just can’t be now. We need time.”

“Please believe us, Petra,” Dimitri implores, his lone blue eye beseeching, “I want our countries to not only be friends but equals. Right now, we cannot be either,” his apologetic look dulls the slap of his words. “Once this business with Bergliez and Aegir is sorted and I’ve gained more support with the Lords and Ladies of Adrestia, we can— we _will_ revisit the matter. I promise.”

Grandfather scoffs, rising from his seat.

“A promise from a Fód seems little better than a kiss from a viper,” he mutters with a cold look directed at the two. Straightening his shawl, his eyes shift to Petra, “A snake can only be charmed for so long, my pet. They’d do well to remember that.”

With those parting words he leaves, her cousins and their retinue with him. Petra watches him go, feeling a sour truth to his words.

“This is not what you were promising me,” Petra sighs, raising a hand to her temple as she turns to regard Dimitri. “When I was swearing my allegiance to you it was not with Brigid being a subject in mind. I was not trading Adrestia for Faerghus rule; it was supposed to be being temporary.”

“This is also only temporary,” Dimitri assures. “Even the war took time, Petra. I know your… _family_ may not think me a man of my word, but what do _you_ think?”

What _did_ she think?

“It is…” she starts uncertainly. Sighing, “It is being hard to say because it is being hard to know. You are sometimes like the ocean: One face is kind and can bestow bountiful blessings. The other is terrifying and can bring disaster. I am not always certain which face you are showing.”

Dimitri internalizes her words with a grievous nod. “I understand.”

She tries not to feel guilty by the pained look shining in his eye.

“Then perhaps you can trust me when _I_ tell you Brigid will achieve independence,” Byleth says. “We want to do this right, Petra. If we rush too fast into this, it’s likely Brigid’s autonomy will be short-lived. Dagda could invade. Adrestia could rebel and seek to colonize. As we suspect loyalists are still positioned there, it might even be easily achieved. We need time to see how we can strengthen each other to prevent such possibilities from occurring in the near _and_ far future. Wouldn’t you rather create something lasting than something doomed to fail?”

“Y-yes..”

“Then please,” Byleth implores, leaning over the table to grasp her fidgeting hand. Her eyes shine like the aquamarine that laps Brigid’s shores. “ _Trust_ us.”

Petra swallows. There’s a part of her that wants to keep fighting, to keep needling the fact that Dimitri had _lied_ to her, but she’s also reasonable. There’s truth to her former professor’s words. After a long deliberating pause she dips her head. “I… I will.”

With a smile Byleth squeezes and releases her hand to properly sit again.

“Give us a couple moon’s time,” Dimitri says, “and we will begin talks again. That doesn’t mean full independence will happen when they do,” he warns, “but I will continue working on dismantling the stipulations Adrestia had put in place until it can.”

For the first time in what feels like hours, Petra smiles, “A-all right. Yes. I would be liking that greatly.”

With some mild awkwardness, Dimitri shifts the conversation to lighter topics— lunch, the evening’s festivities, and the impending joust and varied tournaments— as he gathers his things and the three exit the council room. Dedue appears at his side, murmuring some type of change in schedule which makes the new king scowl.

“Seiros, _again_?” Dimitri swears. “We discussed that mere hours ago! How can he— Gah! If you’ll excuse us,” he tosses Petra a lopsided smile and a weary look to Byleth, “it would seem we must skip lunch to further discuss this morning’s meeting with Lord Acheron and Lord Albany.”

Byleth sighs, raising a hand to rub at her temple. “Of course.” She aims a small smile at Petra, “Until later then.”

The three go their separate ways at the throne room. Petra bids the weary duo good luck with the Leicester lords and continues to the grand foyer. As she ascends the stairs leading to her family’s temporary quarters, she reflects on the morning’s proceedings. While the meeting certainly hadn’t gone as planned and she’s still upset about the delay in Brigidi independence, she can’t help feeling optimistic about her country’s future. Dimitri and Byleth seem sincere in their wish to help her and her people. As her former professor has yet to steer her wrong, it’s hard to find a reason to doubt the woman’s assessment of the situation. All Petra needs to do is exhibit a little more patience. She’s waited this long; what’s a few more moons?

Even so, she feels anxious approaching the common area her family’s been given free reign of. Seeing them so soon after the meeting fills her with dread. In their eyes she’s probably been deemed a failure. Somehow she must convince them that Dimitri hasn’t broken his promise, but merely postponed its delivery; that she is— and always will be— fighting for Brigid.

Outside the door she takes a deep breath, calling on the river and flame spirits for patience and courage. She can hear muffled but raised voices on the other side of the wood. Swallowing her anxiety as best she can, she turns the gilded handle and, before she can think better of it, enters the fray.

“—no restraint! You want to be a foreign dignitary? After the behavior you’ve shown today I find the very idea laughable! I will _never_ send you to speak on Brigid’s behalf again seeing you so clearly lack the tact necessary for the role!”

Petra carefully shuts the heavy door behind her and creeps into the space proper. She briefly locks eyes with Lukas, slouched on the couch to her left. His foot bounces up and down anxiously and his hands tent at his mouth as if in prayer. She can tell his unease is overriding what must be a killer hangover; the bags under his bloodshot eyes age him as much as they seem to have sobered him. He shakes his head at her before tiredly turning his attention back to the two quarreling in the center of the room.

“You agreed with me!” Marina argues. “You agreed with every word!”

Grandfather dismisses her with an agitated wave of his hand and paces away from her to the fireplace. He stares at the crackling flames, hands placed firmly behind his back. This seems to only incense the woman further. Her pretty face screws up in anger like the underside of an ocean wave.

“Grandfather,” she pleads, smoothing her expression when she follows after the man. “Was I really supposed to just sit there and be silent? Was I really just supposed to let that man—”

“And what if I said ‘yes?’” he roars, turning to face her, eyes ablaze. “I saw Petra try to warn you that you’d gone too far too soon and you ignored her! You—”

“Because she was _wrong_! You _knew_ she was wrong too!”

“Wrong?” Petra ventures cautiously. “What exactly was I wrong about?”

Everyone’s eyes suddenly snap to her. Petra prepares herself, assembling her features into something akin to neutral. She stands by the couch Lukas glares at her from, hands respectfully clasped in front of her.

Marina’s eyes dart from hers to the ground with an embarrassed flush, but she recovers quickly. Petra steels herself for a barbed retort. Why should the onslaught of insulting quips and accusations be limited to the council room?

Grandfather’s eyes slit.

“I will not hear what more you have to say, Petra,” he growls. “Not today. Not now.”

“Grandfather, please, I—”

“ _No_ ,” he holds up a hand, eyes sharp, “I will not hear you. I have heard enough promises and excuses from the lips of Fódlanites today. I will not suffer to hear more from one of my own.”

Obediently, she closes her mouth and gives a curt nod, dulling the sting of his words by imprinting halfmoons in her palms. His gaze lingers for a moment before drifting over to her cousins and back.

“I like to think myself a patient man,” he says, “but you three have exhausted my reserves. _Sit_.” 

He gestures brusquely to the sofa Lukas currently occupies.

With a huff, Marina whizzes by him and plops onto the couch with an annoyed crossing of limbs. She gives Petra a sidelong glare that she matches as she perches on the sofa’s armrest. Lukas sits up from his slid position, rubbing at his face and eying the two of them warily. Grandfather’s mouth curls in disdain.

“It would seem the Fódlanites are _right_ about us. We are weak and inferior, undeserving of our kingdom, perhaps,” he directs at Lukas, “even of our kin.”

Lukas groans. His voice is muffled through his hands when he mutters, “Kilí wouldn’t’ve come here even if he _coulda_.”

“And after the shameful behavior you’ve displayed, I’m _glad_ ,” Grandfather hisses. “Here, at least, he won’t have to bear witness to your shame.” Lukas peeks through his hands, concerned. “Although,” Grandfather continues, “I have no doubt he would have asked to cut your braid himself.”

“ _Grandfather_ —”

“I have heard quite enough from you today, Marina,” Grandfather snaps. “Do not speak again.”

“Shouldn’t be hard,” Petra can’t help seething, “seeing as she only talks when she feels it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Wha—? _Ah_. You mean with the Fóds,” Marina smirks. “That’s your own fault. _You_ assumed I couldn’t speak their language.”

“You could have _told_ me!”

“Well,” Marina says with a painted sneer, “given how crudely you speak it I thought I would spare you the embarrassment.”

Petra bristles, cheeks warm.

“Really Pettie, it’s quite sad. How long have you lived here now? I don’t think it took me more than a year to—"

“ _Marina_ ,” Grandfather growls, halting their squabble. “Be _silent_.”

Marina stiffens. Whatever scathing remark she’d been about to say gets locked behind pursed lips. Despite the defiant look in her eye, she makes no attempt to argue further. Petra’s heart flutters like the wings of an angry hornet. She hopes her glare stings just as much.

“I grow weary of you three,” Grandfather scowls, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Lukas, rise. The spirits and your cousins will now bear witness to your punishment.”

Lukas pales. Hesitantly, he leans forward and stands. On wobbly knees he crosses the short distance to their grandfather. Even though he towers over the older man by a good foot, King Varick is clearly the more imposing of the two. Lukas makes the standard warrior salute before stooping to a kneel and bowing his head.

“You have disgraced what it means to be a Brigidi warrior,” Grandfather declares. “A braid as long as yours would suggest you’ve done something of merit. Yet, all you do is drink and whore and _piss_ your days away. Oh yes,” Grandfather hisses when Lukas looks up with fear in his eyes, “I’ve heard of your exploits, Lukas— each tale more shameful than the last. The other chieftains love nothing more than to regale me with your latest escapades.”

The ball in Lukas’s throat bobs as he swallows.

“Yes, child. I know every wicked, half-brained scheme you’ve gotten up to since the day of your first marking.”

“Grandfather, _please_ ,” Lukas begs from his kneeled position, staring helplessly into his hands. “I—”

“Be silent! You have thought because you are a prince that you are immune to scorn,” Grandfather sneers, circling him, “That the clan has expressed nothing but loving adoration for you. You have thought because you are the son of Radek that our people would assume you as great a warrior as he, as Kilían. But what have you done in the name of Brigid? Of MacNeary?” 

“I—” Lukas gasps, head lowering to the floor in supplication. “I—”

Grandfather tuts, ending his gradual loop of the young man. Slowly, he lowers himself to begin uncoiling her cousin’s braid from its spiral atop his head. He discards the pins holding it in place with the same carelessness one might discard a nutshell. Lukas’s breath comes out in hitched rasps with each _ping_ of a dropped pin.

“You have disappointed me, Lukas,” Grandfather murmurs, something sorrowful in his tone and eyes as he unwinds the maroon plait. “While Kilían trains to lead, _you_ spend your nights cavorting with the Fódlanites, failing in even your attempts to swindle their money. You have thought for too long that because you are my grandson you could escape such consequences of character. But perhaps worst of all,” Grandfather says, Lukas’s braid now fully unwound in his hand, “you have thought because I am foolish enough to love you, that you could escape my wrath.”

He thumbs the plait’s length reverently before yanking it at the nape of Lukas’s neck. Her cousin hisses as he is forced to look up, opening squinted eyes that are glassy with unshed tears.

“G-Grandfather, please,” he begs, watching as Grandfather reaches for the gold and opal encrusted dagger at his belt. “M-my King, please, I will do better! _Be_ better! Please don’t—"

Grandfather shushes him and draws the blade, the metal gleaming dangerously in the firelight. “Only a warrior of the MacNeary clan is worthy of having such a braid. You have dishonored me and thus dishonored the clan. Bear your shame with dignity, Lukas. In the future, try to remember that triumphant pride often precipitates a dizzying fall.”

Lukas closes his eyes, resigned, and Grandfather shears the plait clutched in his hand. Hair shorn and thus released, Lukas sinks forward onto the ground, fat tears leaking out from behind closed eyes. What little braid left unravels and falls across his cheeks in wavy, jagged strands. Grandfather stands, cut hair in hand, and re-sheaths his dagger.

“The birth of the warrior begins anew,” he says, dropping the braid in front of Lukas’s silently sobbing form. “May you be worthy of the braid once more.”

Lukas’s wet sniffling mixes with the crackle of fire, so like the sound of snapping bones. Petra’s stomach twists for her cousin. Even Marina’s face has softened in pity. Grandfather regards Lukas for a long moment, a sad fondness cracking through the hard lines of his weathered face. With a sigh, he crouches and puts a hand on Lukas’s shaking shoulder.

“I may be your blood,” he says in tones gentler than he’s been all day, eyes roving from Lukas to his granddaughters, “but I am _also_ your crown. Never forget this. I must do what is best for _Brigid_ because that is what is best for everyone.”

He squeezes Lukas’s shoulder before rising once more to formally address all of them.

“Right now, the Fódlanites see us as either children they must care for or beasts they must tame. Given the events of today, we have given them no reason to believe otherwise.

“I let the fire of youth get the better of me,” he says with a mirthless chuckle. “I must remember my age and the hard-earned lessons it has brought me. That woman— Mm, Byleeth?” he shoots a look at Petra as he begins toward the door, “She’s a charismatic one. I can see how you’d be taken in by her. However, I think you are too trusting of these Fóds. In the future, I’d advise you to think not only what benefits you, but _them_. If there is a conflict of interest, you’d be wise to expect them to do what is most advantageous for them— no matter what promises have been made.”

Petra nods, taking the criticism to heart. She had been naïve. In the future she would be more cautious. 

He stops a foot from the doorway, contemplative.

“Whatever has transpired in Bergliez and Aegir is unfortunate,” he says, “but how did reacting to their accusations with petulance and anger serve us? Were we able to reclaim our kingdom? Our birthright?” He shakes his head, eyes drifting to Marina. “I admire your passion and dedication, my child, but you must learn how a diplomat should act and _react_. They are meant to be like the moving stream— not the rock in its path. Understand?”

She manages a curt nod, but her expression suggests her feelings differ on the matter.

“We must be better than we have shown,” he continues, “because we _are_ better.” He pauses with a pointed look at each of them, finally settling on the defiant Marina. “You will remember this the next time you speak for our kingdom.”

It’s as good a dismissal as a warning. He exits after a final sweep of his eyes, leaving an uncomfortable hush in his wake. Marina sniffles, dabbing the underside of her eye with a finger. Petra pretends not to notice, doing her best to regain her own composure. She focuses instead on Lukas’s sniveling heap by the fireplace. When she feels she can speak without her voice wavering, she stands and crosses to him.

“Come on, Lukas.”

She crouches beside his quivering form and reaches for him. He swats at her with a choked wail, but she dodges, slinging his extended arm over her shoulders. She casts an imploring look behind her at Marina. The woman lets out an exasperated, albeit shaky sigh and joins them.

“Spirits, Lukas,” she grunts, hefting his other arm over her shoulders, “what do you _eat_?”

He doesn’t respond. He just hangs his head, looking pained and utterly defeated. Petra bites her lip, sharing a concerned look with Marina around his broad chest.

“ _Lukas MacNeary_ ,” Marina says, tone cross, “You’re acting like a child. It’s just _hair_ — it’ll grow back! Stop acting like it’s the end of the world.”

Petra thinks that’s a bit harsh. A warrior’s braid is more than a hairstyle: it’s a source of pride. They mark a warrior’s strength and dedication through the ages, changing in intricacy with proof of merit. For it to be gone in the flash of a blade is nothing short of heartbreaking. Lukas has reason to grieve.

A tiny whimper escapes him. His eyes are screwed up shut and he clutches his snipped mane in his first.

“Offer it to the Flame,” Petra suggests, going for a softer and kinder angle than Marina. “Burn away the shame you feel now. Be reborn in the ashes.”

“Spirits,” Lukas grumbles with a side-eyed look of incredulity, “Who are you, _Miri_?”

Petra frowns. That’s not a name she recalls. She glances at Marina in hopes of enlightenment, but the woman just rolls her eyes.

“Just burn the damn thing, Lukas, and be done with it.”

Lukas sniffles, but straightens. He takes his arms off his cousin’s shoulders and fakes the tiniest of smiles at Petra before shuffling to the fireplace. In front of the dancing flames he stares at his hands forlornly, thumbing his old plait. An almost smile stretches his lips.

“It took me years to grow this, y’know?”

“I know,” Petra says.

“What will Kilí say when he sees? Or dad?”

“Probably that you suck,” Marina snipes, crossing her arms. Then gentler, “Just…. Listen, don’t worry about them. Maybe just don’t, you know, get _hammered_ the night before important meetings that your king expects you to be at in the future.”

“Oi! I wasn’t the _only_ one! You were too!”

“Yeah, but _I_ didn’t show up late, did I?”

Lukas shuts his mouth. Apparently he has no response to that.

“You’ll be worthy of the braid again,” Petra promises. “I know you will.”

He makes a disgruntled noise, turning around with a sour look before letting out a long exhale. Then he tosses the braid into the flames.

The three watch the fire blaze for a moment and then Lukas puts his fist in his palm, bowing.

“Flame Spirit,” he invokes, “please burn away my shame. In its ashes may I find strength and valor once more.”

“’Forged in fire,’” Petra and Marina murmur, “born in ash.’”

“’From the ash and the embers may we rise anew,’” Lukas finishes. He uncurls his bent form and turns to them, wiping his eyes with his palms. With a watery quirk of his lips he says, “I need a drink.”

Marina snorts.

“ _Of course_ you do.”

Petra purses her lips but then softens her rigid stance. After everything they’d been through today, who was she to deny him? Honestly, she could probably use one herself.

“All right,” she sighs. “Let’s go.”


End file.
